


Followthrough

by ofplanet_earth



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Character Death, M/M, Military Captain Thorin, Mob Boss Smaug, Revenge, Sniper Bard, Snipers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 11:19:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 26,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12910827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ofplanet_earth/pseuds/ofplanet_earth
Summary: Bard and his children have been living in a little cabin on the edge of Laketown for five years, hiding from Bard's dangerous past. But when that past comes back to haunt them, Bard will have to team up with Thorin and his company to face down his demons, confront the man who killed his wife, and fight to save the people he loves.





	1. Concealment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Concealment: a location that offers concealment from observation, but not always protection from fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay! third and final fic of November! I finished off the month writing rather than stopping once I hit 50k, so this one's a little late getting out. I had about 7k written for this story before November started, but I left those out of the count for my 50k goal, so this one is extra long! 
> 
> I didn't quite adhere to the original request from nafanya-a-a, but I think that's mostly because it's been waiting in the back of my brain literally forever and I forgot some of the details. the original request involved Bard doing illegal things and Thranduil being a spy on the run from his employers, which I didn't incorporate, but it also included 'a winning combination of an immediate Special Something and slow burn' which I hope I accomplished?
> 
> so without further ado, here's your spy/sniper AU! I hope you enjoy it!

Bard sighed heavily as he trudged up the front steps. The porch light was out— the days were growing shorter already and it was late enough now for him to notice the loss of it. He struggled to unlock the front door, half a dozen grocery bags hanging from his fingers and the crook of his elbow. 

“Hurry up Da,” Tilda whined from beside him, “I’m cold!” 

“I know love, I’m trying,” he grunted as he struggled not to drop any groceries, now focusing on turning his key in the lock. He finally wrestled the door open and Tilda rushed past him, darting through the kitchen and through the house before he could remind her to take off her shoes.

He sighed, set his bags down onto the small kitchen table and began unpacking loaves of bread and cartons of eggs.

“Hey Da,” Sigrid slid into the kitchen with one hand hooked around the doorframe.

“Hey Sig. How was school?” 

“Fine,” Sigrid shrugged and began rooting through the bags on the table. “Oh,” she added, “that reminds me. You’ve got a message waiting from Tilda’s nursery.” 

“I’ll listen to it later. Can you pull some chicken from the fridge for me? I’ve got to go check on the porch light before I forget.” He pulled a new light bulb from the pack in the hall closet, knowing that he didn’t have to check that Sigrid would do as he’d asked. She’d probably retrieve the chicken, and get the oven heated up before he came back inside. 

Rather than fetch the old ladder from the rear of the house, Bard pulled an old wicker chair from the corner of the small porch. He tested his weight on it gingerly before finally standing to reach the light fixture in the ceiling. He didn’t bother with troubleshooting, just unscrewed the old bulb and replaced it with the fresh one. 

“Christ,” he jerked backward in shock when the light blinked back to life, momentarily blinding him in the process. He nearly fell off the old chair, but caught himself at the last minute. He cursed again, blinking furiously before he stepped down and returned the chair to its place in the corner, and heading back inside. 

As he’d suspected, Sigrid had done more than fetch the chicken he’d asked her for. She was chopping vegetables at the counter, the chicken was resting on a baking sheet covered in tin foil, and Bard could already feel the warmth coming off the oven. 

“Go on and finish your school work, darlin’. I’ll take it from here.” 

“I’ve finished it all.” 

“Of course you have,” Bard laughed and brushed a playful hand over the top of her head. “Then go enjoy yourself for a while, eh? I can cook a chicken.”

“Don’t forget the spices this time,” she teased. Bard rolled his eyes at the memory— he’d once forgotten to add any seasoning to dinner, and it had come out so bland even he didn’t want to eat it. He’d given in and gone into town to pick up a pizza instead. 

Now, he reached into the cupboard, making a show of setting each of the seasonings on the counter by the vegetables. Sigrid gave him a teasing grin before disappearing around the corner and up the stairs.

➢

Work at the docks was done early for the day, giving Bard enough time to pick Tilda up early from nursery school. He’d completely forgotten about the message that had been left on the machine at home, the one Sigrid had said was from Tilda’s nursery, and so he was surprised when one of her teachers met him at the door and asked if she could have a word with him inside. 

Tilda had punched one of her classmates during recess, she told him, and Bard could only sit back in mute shock. He might have expected something like this from Bain, growing awkwardly into his teenaged years and bitter about the world, but this wasn’t like Tilda. Didn’t sound at all like the sweet little girl who insisted on reading her own bedtime stories. Tilda, who was curious and kind, and more insightful than she had any right to be. 

Numbly, Bard muttered that he would take care of it, stood up, and left the room. Tilda was waiting in the last of a row of chairs lined against the corridor wall, her feet swinging beneath her while she hummed to herself. Could this really be happening? Could his innocent little girl really be starting fights at school at the age of six? 

“Da!” Tilda bounced from her chair and ran to him, wrapping her little arms around his legs and launching into a story about the art project she was working on. Bard was barely listening, lost in thoughts of years-old violence. He lifted her into his arms, paying no mind to her complaints that she was too big to be carried anymore. 

“Tilda,” He turned to her when they were both settled into their seats in the truck. “Did you punch a classmate on the playground yesterday?” 

Immediately, Tilda’s smile soured. “I did not!” 

“Tilda,” Bard sighed. “Miss Arwen said she saw you do it.” 

“But I didn’t punch him, Da! Danny is a big baby and he told the teacher that I punched him, but I didn’t! I only slapped him, and it wasn’t that hard. And besides, it wasn’t my fault.” 

“Munchkin, you shouldn’t hit people, no matter whose fault it is. You know that.” 

“I know Da, and I tried to tell him to stop, but he just wouldn’t listen! He kept pulling my hair and laughing, and pulling even more until the plaits fell out.” She sat there, strapped into her booster seat with her wispy hair falling into disarray around a very serious expression. She crossed her arms and stated, “All the kids my age are so _stupid_.” 

Bard might have laughed if he wasn’t still so shocked. 

“I told Danny that he was invading my personal space, and that if he didn’t stop touching me, I would hit him. He didn’t stop. So I did.” She shrugged. 

Bard didn’t know what to say. He could only stare at her. Going into this conversation, he couldn’t have anticipated anything like this. In the end, he could only nod; how could he chastise her for standing up for herself? “I’ll talk to your teacher tomorrow and make sure Danny leaves you alone.” 

At this, Tilda looked even more wary than she had when he’d actually intended to scold her. “So… I’m not in trouble?” 

“Of course not, darlin’. I wish you’d gone and found a teacher _before_ you hit him, but you’ll never be in trouble for standing up for yourself. Okay?” 

“Okay,” Tilda replied. She looked at her lap and kicked her feet gently out in front of her, looking so solemn and _sensible_ that Bard wasn’t sure if he ought to laugh or cry. 

“When did you become so grown-up? Hm?” 

“Da,” she rolled her eyes, snapping back to her usual self that easily. “I’m six now. Duh.” 

“Of course,” Bard said, matching her cheeky half smile before turning to put the truck into gear. “How could I forget?”

➢

When Bard got home with Tilda, after she’d run off in the direction of her bedroom and after Bard had called her back to take off her boots and coat, he stood by the kitchen table, bracing himself on one of the chair backs and trying to let his mind settle. 

The front door opened as Sigrid and Bain came bustling in from outside, gusts of crisp air blowing in behind them. He gave Sigrid a kiss on the crown of her head and ruffled Bain’s hair as they both dropped their book bags on the table. “Homework before dinner, please,” he said absentmindedly. “Better to—“ 

“To remember it now than forget about it later,” Sigrid teased. “We know, Da.” 

Bard smiled as they began to set out their assignments. He caught sight of the blinking light on the telephone answering device and pressed play, listening absently to the message from Tilda’s nursery, glad to know he’d already taken care of it. The machine beeped.

 _Bard!_ He fell silent as a second message began to play unexpectedly. He froze. The voice was familiar in an old way that twisted in Bard’s gut, but he couldn’t quite place it yet.

 _Bard Bowman. You’re one tough bastard to track down._ The tinny distortion of the audio seemed to put the gruff syllables into context as he listened, and suddenly it all clicked into place. Dread settled in his stomach, icy hot and sending bile bubbling into the back of his throat.

 _Listen,_ the voice continued, _I’ve got a message for you. It comes straight from the top and—_

Bard jabbed at the answering device to stop the recording, and then again to delete it, but the voice still echoed in his head. 

“Da?” Sigrid asked. The humour had gone from her voice. Bard closed his eyes as he gripped the edge of the small table, fighting nausea and vague dizziness that threatened to overwhelm him. “Da,” Sigrid’s voice was small and distant in Bard’s ringing ears “Was that Uncle— was that—” 

“Aye,” he swallowed thickly. “It was.” 

“I thought you weren’t… you said you weren’t going back.” 

Bard turned to his children where they still sat at the kitchen table. Sigrid was frowning, though the expression did little to hide her fear, and Bain was staring blankly at his homework. 

“I’m not,” Bard said, squeezing Sigrid’s hand with one of his own and placing the other on Bain’s shoulder. “I promised I wouldn’t leave you alone again, didn’t I? And I meant it,” But he knew— and they probably knew too— that it was only a matter of time. That if they’d found his phone number, they had to know where he lived as well. 

Sigrid’s front deepened. Bain did not look up from the table. 

“We’ll be all right,” he whispered, resolve solidifying his words. “We’ll all be fine.”

➢

Bard slept like shit. 

He rose from his bed at the first sign of light on the horizon. The house was still dark, but he didn’t turn on any lights. He peered out the windows in the living room, and then the kitchen, coming up short when he came to the front door. It was dark on the porch. Bard flipped the light switch by the door, but nothing happened. 

He shrugged on his coat with a sigh and opened the door quietly. He dragged the wicker chair out across the porch and climbed atop it again, ready to check the bulb and the fixture for defects, but the light blinked back on as soon as he touched it. He squinted as he frowned, focusing his eyes on the old wood of the porch ceiling rather than the light itself. 

It was loose in its socket, that was all. It made him nervous, but he knew it was probably just the wind that had made it come loose. He was just being paranoid. Bard screwed it firmly back into place before stepping down from the chair. He shook himself as the cold seeped in through his unbuttoned coat, put the chair back in its place and hurried back inside.

➢

It wasn’t until the third day that Bard realised what was happening. 

Work had gone over long, and it was dark by the time he pulled into the long drive that led to his house. It was a small structure on a large swatch of land, buried in the forest on the outskirts of Laketown. Bard had chosen it for its remote location. 

He braked hard as he came upon the house, heart pounding. The light were on inside, but the clearing outside was dark, and Bard had nearly driven straight into the tree line. He reversed and turned so that he could park, and sat in the truck a moment after turning off the ignition. 

Everything was quiet and dark, except for the dim light coming through the windows. Nothing moved outside, and Bard climbed out of the truck, made himself walk calmly across the fallen leaves and climb slowly up the front steps. He turned to survey the night again, eyes wide in the dark, adrenaline making all his senses sharper.

After a long moment he turned to unlock the front door, eyes focused on his periphery and ears listening to the night behind him. He didn’t bother to screw the lightbulb back in; he knew it would only be out again the next day.

Someone was watching his house, and they didn’t care if Bard knew it.

He was relieved to find all his children in the kitchen; Tilda was colouring at the table and Bain was working silently on homework, while Sigrid stood at the stove, her texts and notebooks piled neatly in her empty chair. She turned when he stepped into the kitchen, her teasing smile fading from her face when she saw Bard. She didn’t say anything, but she knew something was wrong and Bard didn’t have the will to lie to her, and so he didn’t speak either. 

After dinner, Bard stood at the kitchen sink, his hands idly holding a plate as he stared out through the window. The night was still, but Bard watched anyway, mind racing through the possibilities. 

He didn’t sleep at all that night. 

He lay in bed with his eyes open wide, the window beside him cracked just enough so he could listen to the sounds of the woods outside. There was the occasional sound of a distant bird, but otherwise the night was silent. It did nothing but set him on edge. 

He got up before dawn, bare feet whispering against the worn wooden floor as he made his way downstairs. The house was dark, the woods outside grey in the dim grey light of the eastern sky. He peered out each of the windows, checking quietly to make sure they were all locked. 

It wasn’t until he reached the kitchen that he saw anything. He stood over the sink and studied the trees outside. Another person might have missed the subtle rustle in the brush a few metres away, but in the soft morning glow, Bard could see the outline of a massive, hulking frame pick its way slowly around the bushes and further into the woods. 

He wasn’t afraid— not really. Even if he hadn’t known who was lurking outside his house, he was fairly confident he’d be able to disarm them before they could harm him or his children. As it was, Bard knew exactly whose silhouette was retreating from the small clearing surrounding his house. And now that he was sure, he knew exactly what he had to do.

➢

After dinner the next night, Tilda settled in with a book by the fireplace, Bain played video games on the sofa, Sigrid was busy washing dishes and Bard was preparing to go into town. 

“Can you look after things for a while?” He asked her quietly. She didn’t answer, only turned to him with a sombre expression. It was a look she’d inherited from her mother, one she’d always worn when confronted with a problem she couldn’t immediately solve. 

“Don’t worry, I’m just going to talk,” Bard said as he pulled his coat down from its hook by the door. Sigrid’s frown only deepened. She abandoned the dishes still floating in the sink, crossed the kitchen and wrapped her arms fiercely around Bard’s neck, the damp cuffs of her shirtsleeves pressing cool against his neck. He held on to her just as tightly, like she was a little girl again. 

“Everything’s going to be alright,” he whispered. “I promise.” 

“Please don’t be too late,” Sigrid mumbled against the buttons of Bard’s coat. “I won’t be able to sleep until you get home, and I still have school tomorrow. 

This, too was a habit passed down from Gwen. She’d never been able to sleep when Bard was out, either.

“I won’t,” Bard pressed a kiss to the top of his daughter’s head, eyes pinched shut against the memories that tugged painfully at his chest.

➢

Bard sighed as he wrenched the door of his truck closed behind him. He sat there for a moment, going through a list in his head: a list of what he knew. 

He knew Thorin had a message for him, knew that sooner or later, he would do more than call his home. He knew he was being watched, and he was most likely being followed, too— at least that’s what he was counting on. 

What he needed was a neutral location; somewhere public where they could talk without being overheard, but where their presence would be noticed. Bard needed to draw them away from his house— away from his kids— and he wanted there to be witnesses. 

So he drove down the winding lane that connected his house to the main road, watching ageless pine trees flash by in the fading light as he drew closer to town. Just as Bard was beginning to wonder if he was wrong, if he’d imagined the whole thing, the headlights of another truck flashed in his mirror. His heart thudded in his chest as he turned onto the main road and accelerated toward town, the headlights behind him never falling too far behind.

Curious eyes turned to meet him the moment he stepped through the door of the pub. Although Bard and his family had lived here for five years, he hadn’t made many friends in that time. He recognised some of the faces as men and women from the town, knew their names mostly, but he didn’t socialise with them and they tended to steer clear of him, too.

“Two pints please. Whatever’s on draught,” he said, sparing the barman little more than a glance. He felt each of his old instincts settle over him like armour, slowing his racing heart to beat out a calm and steady tempo. He scanned the pub, identifying all the exits and making note of every face. 

Bard dropped a couple of notes on the bar, gathered both mugs in his hands and strode purposefully toward the corner of the room. He chose a table rather than a booth and sat with his back to the wall, giving him a full and unobstructed view of the whole room.

He only had to wait for a minute or two before the door opened again. The man was tall and broad-shouldered, and he didn’t bother dawdling near the bar; he turned immediately toward the back wall, boots landing heavily against the aged floorboards with each step. He scanned the room efficiently as he walked, just as Bard had. Everybody in the pub paused to stare at the tattoos showing above the collar of the man’s jacket and over the dome of his bald head.

The satisfaction Bard felt at the sight of him attracting so much attention was enough to lift the corners of his mouth into a genuine smile. “Dwalin. What a pleasant surprise.” He didn’t stand or offer a handshake, only held Dwalin’s gaze as the bulky man sat down across from him. 

“What’s the matter? Don’t trust me to be civil without an audience?” 

“Civility was never a particular talent of yours.” 

“I’m plenty civil when it suits me.” 

“It’s civil to stalk a man’s house, is it?”

Dwalin shrugged and let his eyes wander briefly over the wall above Bard’s head. “Had to be sure this was where you’d been hiding out. Knew you wouldn’t take kindly to finding me on your doorstep.”

“Can you blame me?” Bard’s tone was biting, just bordering on cruel, but he refused to feel even a hint of remorse over it. 

Dwalin shook his head. His eyes were locked on Bard, but the line of his mouth looked closer to pity than Bard was comfortable with. “How’re the kids?” 

Bard’s body tensed. He tried to tell himself Dwalin hadn’t meant it as a threat, but he suddenly found himself wishing he’d brought his gun in with him instead of leaving it locked in its safe. 

“Look,” Dwalin sighed and shifted forward in his seat. The wood of the chair groaned, and the table creaked under his weight as he leaned his forearms on the table. “I’m trying to understand your position. Put myself in your shoes, eh? I might have done the same thing if—“ 

“If what? If you’d had a family? If you’d had someone to lose?” 

“I have a family,” Dwalin growled. “I’ve lost people, same as you.” 

“You have no idea.” Bard gripped the handle of his beer with white knuckles, every muscle tensed against the urge to fling it at Dwalin’s bald head.

“Oh, I have an idea. You know what happened after you left that night? After you _deserted us_? We were all but slaughtered. Christ, it’s been five years and not a day has gone by that I don’t remember it. That I don’t wonder what would have been different if you hadn’t abandoned your post.” 

“I don’t regret it. I can’t. I _won’t_. The only thing I regret is that I didn’t leave sooner, when I first thought something was wrong.” Bard lifted his mug to his lips and took a long pull. He hadn’t planned on drinking— the beer was more for appearances than anything— but what the fuck did it matter now? His hands shook as he set the mug down. “Is that what you came here to say? You track me down after five years, call my house, scare my children just to tell me you’re trying to understand?” Bard stood from his chair with a clatter, skin itching to get back in his truck and drive home. 

“Bard,” Dwalin stopped him with a hand on his arm. It wasn’t a firm grip and Bard broke it easily, but he paused regardless. “That’s not what I came here for. Of course it’s not. Sit down will you? You’re causing a scene.” Bard looked around the pub to find few eyes peering cautiously at him over the rim of a glass, but most of the commotion in the pub remained undisturbed. 

The door to the pub opened then, letting in a sharp gust of wind and behind it, a tall man with long blond hair. Bard watched as the man scanned the room briefly, only to stop abruptly when he caught sight of Bard. The man’s eyes flicked to Dwalin and back up, taking in the scene in the corner while Bard stood there, holding the man’s gaze.

“I have a message for you,” Dwalin’s words brought Bard’s attention away from the stranger by the door, the sounds of the pub coming back to him in a rush. 

Bard shook his head to clear his thoughts— he needed his wits about him now more than ever. He looked down at Dwalin with a sneer. “And you couldn’t leave it on the answering device?”

“The fuck do you think?” Dwalin snarled.

“Out with it then,” Bard sighed as he turned and sat back in his chair, watching over Dwalin’s shoulder as the blond stranger spoke to the barman. He stood with his shoulders angled toward the door, and his gaze wandered back to Bard.

“It’s from Thorin. He wants you for one last job.” 

This caught Bard’s attention again. He fought down the shock and dread that surged in his gut at those words, smothering it with a bark of incredulous laughter. “Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“He was able to negotiate that you be discharged honourably at the end of the mission.” 

“Honourable discharge? Is that all you’ve got to convince me with? I’ve done just fine without their honour for five years, and he expects me to drop everything just to have a post script scratched off the bottom of my record?” 

“You know it’s not just about honour,” Dwalin grumbled. “It’s the difference between struggling to put food on your table and being able to send your kids to a good school. It’s the difference between spending the rest of your life in hiding and being able to really _live_ it.” 

Bard grit his teeth as disgust roiled in his belly at the thought of putting his children in such danger for the sake of something as immaterial as money. “No thanks.” He stood from his chair again, though not with the same ire he’d felt the first time he’d tried to storm off. The blond man sat at the bar, though his attention was on Bard again, and he wasn’t trying to hide it. 

“It’s Smaug,” Dwalin hissed through his teeth. It was a last attempt at regaining Bard’s attention, and dammit— it worked. Bard stopped sharply as his whole body tensed, and he turned to face Dwalin again, his eyes wide and his fists clenched tightly inside the pockets of his coat. “We’ve located him. He’s nearby, and we need your help to bring him down.”

➢

Bard sat at his table in the corner even after Dwalin had left. He considered the untouched pint that sat across from him, listing several reasons why he knew he should stand up and leave without giving it another thought: 

Sigrid was waiting at home, wide awake and worried; Dwalin was probably watching for him outside the pub to see what he would do next, and waiting here only made it seem like he was considering his offer. Not to mention the headache he’d have come morning.

_It’s Smaug._

Fuck it. Now was not the time to start lying to himself; Bard _was_ considering Dwalin’s offer, and to do that he needed another drink. He grasped the handle and slid it along the scratched tabletop, taking a long sip just in time to see the blond stranger stand from his seat at the bar and start walking toward him.

“Is the beer any better than the wine they serve here?” The man asked, resting a hand on the back of Dwalin’s abandoned chair and cradling a plain highball glass of wine in the other.

“Doubtful,” Bard rasped. “It’s all shit.” 

“I don’t suppose there’s another pub in town that might have something better?” 

“Nah,” Bard turned his eyes up to meet the man’s gaze. “If it doesn’t taste like piss then it’s not doing its job.” The man arched a dark eyebrow and the hint of a smile played at the corners of his mouth. Bard shrugged. “Or so I’m told.” The man’s eyes slipped from Bard’s and fell to the table between them, but the smile that broke sudden and bright on the man’s face left Bard to stare as if struck dumb. 

“Would you mind some company?” The man asked, his smile still alight in his eyes and round in his cheeks. “To drink alone is the epitome of loneliness, and neither of us should be lonely.” Bard studied the man some more, under the guise of considering his offer. He was even more stunning up close. 

Bard nodded his head and motioned for him to sit in the empty chair across from him. 

“I’m Thranduil,” said the man, offering his hand across the table. 

“Bard.” 

“Bard,” Thranduil repeated. “Are you new in town as well?” 

“Unfortunately, no,” Bard sighed. Five years spent in this town suddenly seemed like an age. “And you?” 

“I just arrived today, though I’m not sure how long I’ll be here.”

“I would ask if it’s for business or pleasure, but I can’t imagine anyone coming here for the fun of it.” 

“Well,” Thranduil said, holding Bard’s gaze with a bold smirk. “Ideally, I’ll find a bit of both.” Bard felt his cheeks warm, and he couldn’t hide the bashful smile that overcame him at those words. 

He could blame it on the beer, he supposed, but he’d have been lying if he said he wasn’t affected by Thranduil. His face was angular, but not overly so. His eyebrows were dark and thick, contrasting his pale eyes and his white-blond hair in a way that seemed to suit him perfectly. He wore a slate suit and a deep red shirt, all tailored and perfectly pressed. The top buttons of his shirt were undone, baring a smooth and pale neck that stretched and bobbed as he sipped his wine. It seemed impossible that such a man could exist in this pub— that such a man would approach Bard, and yet here he was. 

“Was everything alright between you and your… friend?” 

“Not a friend,” Bard corrected bitterly. “An old acquaintance, more like.”

“Not a happy reunion, I take it?” 

“No,” Bard agreed. “I can’t say that it was.” 

“I’m sorry,” Thranduil said, and for all that it was worth, he really did seem to mean it. “I don’t mean to pry, he just didn’t seem like a friendly bloke.” 

Bard laughed and took a perfunctory sip of his drink. “That’s putting it mildly. We worked together, years ago,” he said, distantly wondering why he would offer that information to a stranger.

“What sort of work was it?” 

“I’d tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,” Bard smiled wryly. “And that would be a shame.” 

“Would it?” 

“Aye,” Bard was feeling reckless, and he let himself stare without shame, cataloguing the way Thranduil’s fingers curled around his glass, the way his hair fell around his shoulders when he tipped his chin just so. The way his lips looked when they curled into a smirk. “It would.” 

Just then a loud roar came from the crowd closer to the bar, several drunken voices spewing profanities at a small flatscreen mounted on the wall. 

“I don’t mean to be forward, but” Thranduil leaned over the table between them, though the commotion by the bar wasn’t loud enough to warrant it. “Would you like to find somewhere more… private?” Thranduil’s voice was low and deep, his tone dripping with something unnameable and bordering on sinful. 

Bard sipped from his drink and flashed what he hoped was a disarming, playful smirk. “Are you trying to get me alone?” 

Thranduil’s eyes raked over Bard, his gaze a heavy, almost physical force that dragged from his eyes to his lips, down his neck and across his shoulders, then back up to linger blatantly on his lips. He hummed somewhere deep in his throat, eyeing Bard now like a lion might eye its prey. “I wouldn’t presume one way or the other,” he said, but his tone left no doubts that what he really meant was: _yes_. 

They sat in silence for a moment while Bard stared in bewilderment. When was the last time someone— anyone— had flirted with him? He’d been out of the game for a while, but it was clear that this man, this gorgeous, sinful man was completely out of his league. 

“I’m going to pay for this awful wine. If you decide to wait for me— and I hope that you do,“ Thranduil’s eyes dropped to Bard’s lips again, just long enough that a poorly timed blink might have erased it altogether— “we can find somewhere to continue our conversation.” 

Bard swallowed thickly and nodded without a word. He stood, gathered his jacket, and gave Thranduil a last, lingering look before he turned toward the door.

➢

Outside the pub, Bard began pacing restlessly, only a few steps in each direction. His truck was only half a block away; he could reach it quickly enough if he wanted to leave before Thranduil returned. His proposition had seemed like a kindness at first— it gave Bard the opportunity to withdraw without any confrontation or uncomfortable apologies. But now that he was here, waiting, he found it also gave his heart time to slow down and his mind time to clear. 

What was he thinking? Bard didn’t _do_ this— he never found himself being seduced by a handsome stranger or waiting around on a sidewalk for a late night tryst— never even found himself wanting to. This wasn’t Bard. This wasn’t something he _did_. He kept to himself, and he had damn good reason to. 

He should leave now. He could think of a dozen reasons why: Sigrid was waiting at home with her siblings; Bard had to be at the docks early the next morning; Dwalin was still around here somewhere, probably watching him right now. The townspeople would talk— even more than they were going to already, after being seen with Dwalin at the pub. 

But just as Bard let his gaze drift off in the direction of his truck, just as he was about to convince himself to leave, the pub door creaked open and Thranduil stepped out into the night. The dim lights inside hadn’t done him justice; in the cool moonlight, his hair seemed to glow. He was taller than Bard had expected, every contour long and lean, and he moved with all the power and grace of a predator.

“I wasn’t sure you’d still be here.” 

“Honestly? I wasn’t sure I would be either.” Bard shook his head, reminding himself again of all the reasons he shouldn’t— couldn’t stay. “But I do have to be going.” 

Thranduil nodded, as if he’d expected this answer all along. “Family waiting for you at home?” 

“Aye. My eldest is watching her brother and sister. She—“ Again, Bard found himself wanting to tell this stranger more about himself and about his life. More than he knew he should. “She’ll be waiting up.”

“That’s a shame,” Thranduil said, and he seemed to genuinely mean it. “I’m in town for a while yet. Perhaps we’ll see each other again.” He held his hand out and Bard took it, holding Thranduil’s gaze unwaveringly.

“Perhaps we will,” Bard said, though what he really wanted to say was, _I hope so._

➢

Bard did nothing for two days. Though he tried to keep his mind off of his meeting with Dwalin and his encounter with Thranduil, though he tried to focus on his job and his responsibilities, he still found himself staring blankly into space, thoughts wandering when he ought to be paying attention to what was in front of him. 

When he wasn’t thinking about Smaug and Thorin’s offer, Bard found himself thinking of Thranduil, the stranger he’d met at the pub. How long had it been since someone had shown an interest in him? How long since he’d met someone he actually _enjoyed_ talking to? Over and over, Bard would remember the flicker of the smile that had played at Thranduil’s lips, only to come back to the present moment and find he was smiling to himself. 

They hadn’t spoken for very long, and the conversation on its own wasn’t especially memorable, but _Thranduil_. Everything about him was memorable, from the deep timbre of his voice to the white gold shine of his hair to the intensity of his grey eyes. 

Sigrid was worried, he could tell. He hadn’t told her anything about his meeting in the pub, but she was clever enough to know that it hadn’t ended there; that it wasn’t over yet, even if Bard wasn’t smart enough to realise that himself. 

He was constantly distracted. He’d forgotten to pack Bain a lunch yesterday, and this morning he’d nearly driven straight to the wharf with Tilda still in the back seat of his truck before remembering he had to drop her off at nursery school. Just hours ago he’d ordered a pizza unable to focus for long enough to make dinner on his own.

“Da?” Sigrid called to him from the kitchen table. Bard was standing over the kitchen sink with a glass in his hands, passively studying the shadows as they reached out from the forest.

Bard sighed and tried to drag his mind away from horrible memories. “I’m sorry love. I know I haven’t been myself these past few days.” 

“It’s about the army, isn’t it? They want you back, don’t they?”

“Hey, come on,” Bard sighed again, helplessness and guilt welling up in his chest so violently that it threatened to spill out. “That’s not something I want you worrying about, love.”

“But I _am_ worried about it. What happens if you go away again? What happens to us? What happens to _you_?” 

“Nothing’s going to happen to us,” Bard insisted. He hadn’t meant for it to, but the words had flown fierce from his mouth, his tone bordering on angry, and he drew himself back in before it could go any further. “I won’t let anything happen,” he said, softly.

“But you can’t promise that.” Sigrid levelled him with a sober gaze that made her look far too old, and far too much like her mother. “Can you?” 

Bard wanted so badly to reassure her, to tell her that yes, they would be safe, that he _could_ make promises to protect his little girl. He knew he couldn’t lie to her, but dammit, he needed to say _something_ true, something to make them both feel better. 

“Come here,” he said, shoulders falling and arms stretching towards her. It spoke volumes that Sigrid didn’t protest, but simply stood from her chair and shuffled around the table, one hand brushing over the backs of the chairs as she passed them. 

Sigrid stepped up close beside him, wrapping her arms around him and leaning her head against his shoulder, He held her tightly, the same way he’d done when she was little, wishing things were that simple, that he could make everything better just by holding her. 

“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” he murmured against the wisps of hair at the crown of her head. “I wish I did. But you need to know that I’m going to do everything I can to keep you safe. To keep all of us safe. Nothing is going to happen to you as long as I can help it.” 

“And what about you? What if something happens to you?” 

“Nothing is going to happen to me,” he whispered, closing his eyes against the uncertainty he felt, as if he could will it to be true.

➢

That night, after the children had gone to bed, Bard stepped through the front door and out into the cool night. Crickets chirped in the distance, but otherwise the air was still. He stood on the steps for a moment, eyes scanning the tree line for movement. He squared his shoulders and set his jaw, and breathed evenly through his nose as he faced the darkness. 

“I want to speak to Thorin,” he finally said. “In person, and on my terms. He can meet me at the pub in town tomorrow at seven, or he can find another man to do the job.” 

Bard let the silence hang in the air for a moment longer before turning back to the house and opening the door. There was no indication that anyone had heard him— no real sign that anybody was hiding in the trees at all. He wished that were the case, but he knew better. Just like he knew with a sick certainty that Thorin would be at the pub tomorrow night. 

He was a part of this now, for better or for worse. He only hoped he wouldn’t come to regret it.

➢

Bard arrived at the pub early the following night. He did not order a drink. 

He found himself slowly sinking back into that headspace— the one that demanded all his focus and acuity and discipline; the one that had him counting the minutes without having to look at his watch. But his nerves were seeping through the cracks in that disused mindset. He was tense, and he wasn’t paying attention to his surroundings expect to confirm that the room was secure and that Thorin hadn’t arrived before him. 

It startled him when a tall, lean frame approached his table from the opposite corner of the room. 

For a moment, Bard worried he’d looked right past Thorin or one of the other men, but that was not who stood before him now. It was Thranduil, somehow appearing even more stunning than Bard remembered him. 

“Would you mind some company?” He asked, and Bard couldn’t help but to smile. “I had hoped I would see you again.” 

“Aye, so had I.” Bard sat up straighter in his chair, his heart leaping as Thranduil settled into the chair next to him, rather than across the table. 

“I thought you said you didn’t come here often.” 

“I thought you said the wine was shit.” 

“It is. I’ve decided not to subject myself to it a third time.” 

A third time. That meant— “You’ve been back here more than once?” 

Thranduil shrugged, but the way he held Bard’s gaze belied the casual gesture. “It turned out to be worth it, after all. I have to admit I’ve been a bit… distracted. Since I’ve been in town.” 

Was it in Bard’s mind, or did Thranduil simply have a talent for making innocent words sound completely sinful? Bard tamped down his flustered blush, quirking his lips into a smirk instead. “Distracted? By me?” 

Thranduil drew his lower lip between his teeth and all Bard’s attention narrowed and fixed on that single motion. Bard’s blood was rushing in his ears, any show of confidence wiped from his face and all thoughts banished from his mind. God, this man would be the death of him if he wasn’t careful. Thranduil smirked too then, doing little for Bard’s blood pressure.

He cleared his throat, not caring how obvious he was, and stuttered, “So uhm. What do you do for work?” 

Thranduil’s smirk widened to a grin, but he took the bait without pause. “It was supposed to be an office job,” he leaned back in his chair, resting one hand on the scarred wood of the table. “But it’s turned out to be much more hands on. Risk assessment, conflict resolution, cleaning up messes when things go badly. What about you?” 

Bard wasn’t sure what it was, exactly, but he could tell that Thranduil was hiding the truth while still being careful not to lie. “I work down at the wharf on the lake, doing all the work of a manager without the title or the pay. Conflict resolution and cleaning up messes, more often than not.” 

“It’s exhausting, isn’t it? Picking up after other people’s mistakes?” 

Just then, Bard's focus was broken. His awareness snapped back to the chatter of the pub beyond their small table, just in time to see a looming figure approaching to Thranduil’s left. They were all quiet for a moment; Thranduil becoming aware of the intrusion while Bard followed the movement over Thranduil’s shoulder. 

“Bard,” Thorin said, his tone conversational while still maintaining the edge Bard had come to expect from him. “I didn’t know we’d have company.” 

“Oh I’m sorry,” Thranduil’s polite smile didn’t falter when he looked up to see Thorin looming behind him. “I didn’t realise you were meeting someone,” he said, though he made no move to excuse himself. 

The whole situation was enough to set Bard’s teeth on edge. “I wasn’t sure you’d show up at all,” he said to Thorin.

“When I’m meant to be somewhere,” Thorin’s eyes narrowed, “I make sure I show up.” Fury clenched in every one of Bard’s muscles, curling his hands into fists where they rested on his thighs. 

“I couldn’t exactly get ahold of you, could I?” Bard spat. Thorin glared, Bard scowled, and Thranduil looked hesitantly between them both while silence hung over the table.

“…I think I should be going,” Thranduil said at last. 

Thorin’s head spun to focus on Thranduil, practically sneering at him down the length of his nose. “Yes, I think that would be wise,” he practically growled. 

“I’ll walk you out,” Bard said to Thranduil, trying to keep the strain out of his voice as he glared openly at Thorin. “I’m sorry about that,” he said once they’d made it outside the pub.

“Not at all,” Thranduil turned to him. 

“Thorin is… he can be a complete arse, truly.”

“He is quite brusque,” Thranduil said, the barest hint of a sneer curling in the corner of his lips. 

“Maybe I can make it up to you?” 

“Make it up to me?” Thranduil repeated, his sneer turning into a sly smile with an impossible sort of grace. “How would you propose to do that?” 

“Maybe we could see each other again? On purpose this time. Maybe somewhere less crowded, where I’m less likely to meet old colleagues?”

“Bard,” Thranduil purred, shifting his weight and leaning in closer; so close Bard could see the individual flecks of silver and blue in his eyes. “Are you coming on to me?” 

It was crazy, flirting so openly with a man he’d only just met, but Bard found he didn’t care. “Aye, I believe I am,” he replied, refusing to feel self-conscious of the gravel in his voice. He shuffled on numb feet, taking a small step closer so that his boots and Thranduil’s shoes were nearly touching. 

“In that case,” Thranduil’s voice was low and smooth, and it did something to Bard’s gut that was not wholly unpleasant. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a card, then reached into another pocket for a pen. He turned the card over in his palm and began to scribble something down. His averted gaze left Bard free to study the angles of his face, the way his nose was just slightly crooked and the way his plush lips were parted just slightly. Bard started when he looked back up, struck again by the piercing blue of his eyes. “This is my number. I hope you’ll call me soon.” 

He slipped the card into Bard’s waiting hand. He turned away to leave but his gaze and his fingers lingered, just barely brushing the skin of Bard’s palm. He flashed that smirk again just before he turned away, leaving Bard feeling as though he’d just taken a punch straight to the chest. 

He stood there a few moments longer, watching Thranduil’s retreating back, before he remembered the reason he’d come here in the first place. Mood effectively soured by the thought of Thorin waiting inside, Bard frowned and turned back the way he’d come, steeling himself for what waited for him back inside the pub.

➢

That night, Bard dreamed of Thranduil. He dreamed they were outside the pub, standing on the sidewalk amid soft lamplight. At first it was just a memory, the flash of fire in Thranduil’s eyes and the quirk of his lips. But then Thranduil reached for him, and Bard knew with the fierce certainty of a dream that this was new; this was different. This was everything he’d hoped for, that night in the cool air. 

Instead of a scrap of paper, Thranduil's bare palm grasped Bard’s hand and didn’t let go. Instead of turning to walk away, Thranduil drew him closer, brought a hand to rest at the nape of Bard’s neck and held him steadily there while Bard’s breath caught in his throat. 

Thranduil’s eyes were on Bard’s lips but he held back, studying Bard’s face as if he were asking a question. 

Bard didn’t wait to be asked. He leaned forward, catching sight of the way Thranduil’s lips parted in anticipation just before he closed his eyes. Bard’s head was spinning. He was falling further and further into Thranduil, his mouth hot and wet against Bard’s lips, heavy breaths ghosting across his cheek, his hair cascading through Bard’s fingers.

The world fell away around them and Bard forgot about Thorin waiting inside the pub, forgot about Smaug and his responsibilities, everything except for the feeling of Thranduil's mouth slowly devouring him. 

And then Smaug was there, standing on the sidewalk just over Thranduil’s shoulder. “Bowman,” he hissed, and suddenly the dream twisted and changed before his eyes. Bard held Thranduil close as the night pressed in around them. He watched as Smaug raised his arm, fingers curled and pointing at the back of Thranduil’s head. 

Bard jerked awake to find himself in his bed, sweat soaking his nightclothes and cooling against his skin, the explosion of a gunshot still echoing in his ears.

➢

He lay awake for hours after that, body exhausted but eyes wide in the dark, unwilling and unable to fall back asleep. He played the night through a hundred times as he lay awake, following Thranduil outside the pub, lingered on the playful flash of teeth behind his knowing smirk. 

He thought about Thorin’s offer, felt a vague sense of satisfaction when he remembered the sour snarl Thorin had given him when Bard, after listening patiently to everything Thorin had to say, had simply said, “I’ll think about it.” 

Two scraps of paper sat silently on his nightstand. One was a crisp business card, elegant numbers scrawled on the empty side. The other was a crumpled corner of notebook paper, covered in the scratchy, untidy slope of Thorin’s handwriting.

Bard didn’t have a mobile phone. When he and the children had first come to this town, it was an unnecessary risk he couldn’t afford to take. Later, it was a luxury Bard couldn’t work into his already tight budget, and then it was an extravagance he simply didn’t need. Now though, Bard wished he had one. 

When morning finally came, he went through his daily routine, dropped Tilda off at nursery school and arrived at work on time, but his mind was elsewhere. 

Without any real conscious decision to do so, Bard drove to the nearest shop on his lunch break and found himself standing in front of a meagre display of mobile phones. With little deliberation, he chose the cheapest one, reasoning that a prepaid mobile was difficult to trace and would be necessary when he was out on the job with Thorin— 

Bard closed the door of his truck with more force than necessary, shaking his head to clear his thoughts. He hadn’t made any decisions about that yet. 

Following the instructions on the package, he inserted the SIM card and powered on the mobile. He considered the two pieces of paper he’d slipped into his pocket before leaving the house. 

He considered calling Thranduil, asking if he wanted to meet, but it felt like he was moving too quickly. Instead, he programmed the number into the contacts list and opened up a new text message. He’d only bought the most basic device, but he was suddenly glad that it had a full keyboard, feeling old as he remembered sending messages using the number keypad years ago. 

Bard stared at the blank message for a minute or more, trying to think of something to say. He remembered the dream that had woken him in the middle of the night, the phantom press of Thranduil’s lips against his. The memory made his cheeks flush, though whether it was from embarrassment or arousal, Bard didn’t examine closely enough to figure out. 

He began to type. 

_i had a dream about you last night._

Smaug’s smiling face flashed through Bard’s mind and he quickly deleted the text.

_when can i see you again?_

He deleted that, too. 

_i cant stop thinking about you_  
you’re the most beautiful man i’ve ever seen  
i wish i had the nerve to kiss you last night 

He deleted them all and leaned his head back against his seat with a harsh sigh. Finally, he typed out _it was nice to see you last night_ and pressed send before he could over think it. 

He left the scrap of notebook paper in his pocket for later. He would give Thorin his answer soon, but first he would make him wait.

➢

If Bard was distracted before, he was absolutely useless now. The mobile phone felt heavy in his pocket, and he was constantly having to stop himself from pulling it out of his pocket to check for messages. Not until he was letting his truck warm up at the end of his shift did he finally give in, heart racing as he saw a small icon shaped like an envelope on the screen. 

_I enjoyed seeing you as well,_ it said. Then the mobile vibrated in his hands as another message came through. _Have to clean up any messes today?_

 _not today,_ Bard replied with a smile. He shifted the truck into gear and began the drive home. 

He got another message as he was making dinner. Bard washed his hands impatiently before reading it and typing out a response. 

“Is that a mobile phone?” Sigrid asked. Her eyebrows were raised as she looked over the table at him, a pencil hanging idly in her hand. 

“Aye,” Bard nodded. He didn’t have a real explanation for it, and so he didn’t offer one. “I’ll write the number down and leave it by the phone so you can reach me,” he said instead. Sigrid frowned at him, but whatever she was thinking, she kept it to herself.

➢

The next morning, Bard woke up fifteen minutes before his alarm. He stretched perfunctorily, made his way to the washroom, and stripped methodically while the shower heated up. When he was washed and clean shaven, dressed, teeth brushed, he made his way downstairs to start breakfast. 

He saw Sigrid and Bain off to the bus, smiling reassuringly when Sigrid paused for a moment with a suspicious look on her face. He tried— and failed— not to feel guilty. 

He would tell her later that night, and Bain too. He would only tell Tilda that she was going to stay with Miss Hilda for a few weeks. Tilda bounced excitedly in her car seat as he drove her to nursery school, all the playground drama of the week before forgotten with the news of the day trip they were taking to the greenhouse in town today. 

It was business as usual when Bard arrived at the docks. He waved to Percy and, reluctantly, Alfrid, and got straight to work. He could feel the weight of his mobile in his right coat pocket— the possibility of finding a message from Thranduil warring with the knowledge that he’d have to let Thorin know about his decision as he worked.

When he broke for lunch, Bard finally gave in to the pressure and pulled the mobile out. There was a message waiting for him, but he didn’t open it. Not yet. He wanted to deal with Thorin first. 

From his left pocket, he pulled out the scrap of paper Thorin had given him two nights before. Quickly and without pausing to think, he dialled the number. It rang twice, three times before the line clicked and went silent. 

“Thorin,” he said. “It’s Bard.” The line remained quiet for another moment before Bard could hear the faint sound of an inhaled breath. 

“Bard. So glad you finally decided to get in touch.” 

“Well, I knew you wouldn’t want me on your team unless I was committed.” 

“And you are? Committed?” 

Bard sighed. “My family was nearly destroyed,” he said. “I’m done running. I’m going to see this through.”

➢

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments? questions? concerns? leave a comment or find me on [tumblr](http://ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com)!
> 
> also, feel free to point out any errors you may find. I had a marathon editing session today, and I worry I might have overlooked some things.


	2. Engagement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bard agrees to work with Thorin and the company to keep his family safe, but the cost is high. 
> 
> Engagement: a fight or battle between armed forces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter two! buckle in folks, it's going to be a bumpy ride.

It was arranged that Bard would meet Thorin— and, he assumed Dwalin and a few others from the team— later that night. Thorin didn’t give him a location, only a time: Bard was to leave his house at 6pm. From there, they would meet him and lead him to a secure location.

When he returned home from work, Bard began preparing dinner. Sigrid sat silently at the table. He knew she could tell something was amiss, and he turned to face her once the meat loaf was in the oven. “You’re going back, aren’t you?” She asked, frowning at the homework she’d been working on. 

“Go find your brother, please?” He said in lieu of an answer. Sigrid sighed heavily through her nose, but she must have sensed that this was serious, because she stood from the table and left the room without another word. Bain was with her when she returned, both of them looking grave, as though they were expecting a punishment. 

They sat down at the table and Bard sat across from them. “You both know what’s going on, and I won’t insult you by trying to lie to you. You know why we moved here after I left the service.” 

“There were dangerous men after you,” Sigrid said, at the same time Bain said,

“We’re hiding.”

“Aye,” he said, because both statements were true. 

“And now you’re going back,” Sigrid concluded. 

Bard took a deep breath and said, “I am. And I wanted to tell you both what was happening. Let you know why I feel that I need to do this.” 

“You don’t _need_ to do anything. Isn’t that what you always tell me?” Sigrid asked. “Nobody can make you do something you don’t _want_ to do.” 

“That’s true,” Bard said.

“Then why are you going?” Sigrid cried “Why do you want to go back to that life?” 

“We’re not going back to that life, but we can’t keep living like this, either.” Bard said. “There are things happening now that are my fault, and I need to go and fix them. I need to finish what I started.” 

“Nothing you can do will bring Ma back,” she spat. There were tears in her eyes. 

“I know,” Bard whispered. He tried not to let her words sting him, as he knew they were meant to. “But this isn’t just about your Ma. This is about both of you, and Tilda too. This is about making sure that a very bad man isn’t able to hurt anyone else.” 

“You mean Smaug,” Bain murmured. 

“How do you— how do you know that name?” 

“Just because you’ve chosen to live in the dark ages doesn’t mean I don’t know how to use Google. Just because I don’t do well in school it doesn’t mean I’m an idiot,” Bain growled. 

“Of course you’re not! Bain, I would never think that—“ Bard took a deep breath. “I know I’ve made some decisions for us that haven’t been easy. I know you’ve resented those choices, and of course I know you know how to use Google, Bain.” Bard paused for a moment, trying to get a handle on how this conversation had gone so horribly wrong so quickly. “That’s what I’m trying to say here: that I understand this has been difficult, hiding the way we have done, but that’s why I have to do this, so that we won’t have to anymore. So you can all be safe. I know you may not understand right now. But this life we’re living… it can’t last forever. It wasn’t meant to be permanent, and I can’t let us go on living in constant fear of danger.” 

“And what happens to us if you don’t come back? What happens if we lose you like we lost Ma?” He could tell that Sigrid was angry and hurt, and it broke Bard’s heart that he’d caused it. He wished he could say that would never happen, wished he could promise that he would always come back to them, that they would all be safe, but he knew he couldn’t. 

He studied the grain of the table and said, “I’ve spoken with Hilda and I’ve left instructions. To make sure you’re all taken care of in case things go wrong.” 

Neither of his children said anything. When he looked up, silent tears were streaming down Sigrid’s cheeks. Bain’s face had gone white and his mouth was pulled into a terse line. Bard thought his guilt would eat him alive.

Sigrid leapt from her chair and ran from the room, and Bard did nothing to stop her. She had every right to be upset, he knew, but it didn’t change his decision, and following her now would only make things worse. Instead, he turned to Bain and said, “I’m sorry it has to happen this way.”

Bain didn’t say anything, only stood silently from his chair and left the room.

➢

Bard left Sigrid in charge of cleaning up after dinner. She wasn’t happy, he could tell, but she agreed without a word of protest. 

He retrieved his gun from its safe, checked that the safety was on, and tucked it into the waistband of his jeans. It was a reassuring pressure against the small of his back as he drove off in the direction of town, knowing that someone— most likely Dwalin— would pull up in front of him soon. 

And sure enough, just as Bard approached the stop sign at the end of the long road that led away from his house, a familiar truck pulled out from a hidden drive and stopped in front of him. The truck’s turn signal began to flash. Although there were no cars coming in either direction, they waited, and Bard knew the truck wouldn’t move until Bard showed them he would follow. 

Finally, he flicked on his turn signal, and the truck ahead of him pulled away from the stop sign. 

They turned left, and then right, skirting around the main roads leading into town. Bard noted each turn as he kept up behind the truck, until finally they pulled to a stop beside a faded wooden sign for a park that had long since been swallowed by the surrounding forest. 

He watched as Dwalin and Bifur stepped out of the truck while Bard parked behind them in the narrow lot. The tangled mess of Bifur’s hair was almost a comical contrast to Dwalin’s shaved, tattooed skull. 

Instead of getting out of his own truck, Bard rolled down his window and looked around at the wild trees outside, searching for any sign of where they were headed. He didn’t like this. He waited for Dwalin to approach him, which he did, eventually, muttering a healthy string of curses beneath his breath. 

“Are you coming or not, Bowman?” He growled when he finally reached Bard’s window. 

“Not until you tell me exactly where we’re going.” 

“The safe house is three kilometres east of here. The trucks can’t go any further, so we have to walk.” Bard clenched his teeth; there were a thousand different things that could go wrong, a thousand different traps that could be waiting for him inside that forest. 

He did not like this. At all. 

But he knew he couldn’t turn around. He knew that if he left now, he’d be closing the door on the only chance he had to keep his family safe, the only chance he had to give his children the life they deserved. He knew if he left now, he’d regret it for the rest of his life. 

He rolled up his window, turned the engine off, and climbed out of the truck. 

“Right then,” Dwalin grumbled. “Let’s get a move on.” 

The forest was dark, but the path was better worn than Bard had expected, and Dwalin and Bifur seemed to know well enough where they were going. Before long they came to a wire fence, high enough that a man wouldn’t be able to jump over without tearing his skin to shreds, and Bard suspected it was electrified, besides. A gate buzzed softly and swung open as they approached, then swung shut behind them.

All Bard’s instincts began to scream at him to run, to pull his gun and fight his way out, but he did his best to snuff them out. There was no going back now. 

There was nothing inside the gate but more trees, at least for at least ten metres. Then the forest cleared and revealed a small cabin, not so dissimilar to Bard’s own. The light coming from inside the windows was dimmed to attract little attention, and Bard could see shadows stationed at either end of the porch, the elongated suggestion of a rifle in each of their hands. 

Luckily, neither of them were pointed in Bard’s direction, so he followed Dwalin and Bifur as they led the way toward the safe house. 

Bard catalogued every detail he could, though there was little to see in the evening gloom. Part of him knew that Thorin did this on purpose, that he wanted to put Bard on his guard, to make him feel on edge and out of his depth. All it really did was make him feel as though he was surrounded by enemies, which didn’t play well in Thorin’s favour. 

There were soft lanterns and table lamps lit inside, each of them near windows to try and keep the shadows contained inside, rather than throwing them onto the covered windows. It was an odd precaution, Bard thought, since they were so well hidden and the perimeter of the camp seemed well defended, but he said nothing as he sat down in the kitchen where Dwalin had told him to wait. 

For someone who seemed to want Bard on his team so badly, Thorin sure didn’t rush to meet him. It was at least five minutes later, by Bard’s count, that he finally appeared in the doorway, his shadow stretching long from the lanterns behind him. 

“I was under the impression that you _wanted_ my help. Instead, all I’m feeling is hostility.” Bard said, keeping his tone light and polite. 

“You’ll have to forgive the others. They remember too well what you did, and some of them aren’t happy I’ve invited you here at all.” 

“The others would do well to remember that I did what I did to protect my family.” 

“We were supposed to protect each other,” Glóin roared, standing rancorously from his chair in the far corner of the room. “ _We_ were supposed to be a family!” 

“You all _are_ each other’s family,” Bard countered, sparing a look for each of the men around the room. there were thirteen, all told, and the most distant relation between them was that of second cousins. “I had a family of my own, one separate from all of you, and they were in danger.” 

“We keep our promises,” Kíli said, his voice rumbling above every other voice in the room. “We fulfil our duty.” 

“And we don’t abandon each other to die,” Fíli added. 

Bard was about to argue, his temper flaring hot within his chest, when another voice rose above the rest. “Hold on lads,” Balin said, standing beside Thorin and Dwalin, though he was significantly shorter than both of them. “I think what Bard means to say is that he was in a difficult position. What would you do if your brother was in trouble, and the only way to help him was to leave the rest of us behind?” He asked Fíli. “It’s an impossible choice, and you can’t know what you would do unless you’ve had to make it yourself.” 

This brought an end to the argument, though it was an uneasy sort of truce. Bard gave Balin a small nod, grateful to him for ever being the reasonable one. Balin gave him a brief smile in return. 

“Look,” Bard sighed, leaning forward in his chair and bracing his forearms against the table. “I know many of you are still angry with me, and I can’t blame you for it. But you asked me here for a reason, and I agreed to join you again for the same reason I left years ago: to keep my family safe. Whatever your opinions about me, I hope you still know me we well enough to understand that I would do anything to protect my children, and right now that means taking Smaug down. If that’s not enough for some of you to trust me, then I honestly don’t know what I could say to convince you. But I’m here, and I’m willing to help. So can we _please_ stop arguing about things that happened years ago and talk about what’s going to happen next?” 

“Bard is right,” Thorin said, his voice filling the shadowy space of the kitchen easily. “Now is the time to finalise our plans, and to prepare. Anyone who doesn’t feel they can discuss them constructively in our present company is free to leave.” 

They waited in silence. Several of the men shifted uneasily— and there were was a woman here too, along with a man Bard didn’t know— but no one stood to leave or rose their voice to argue. Thorin nodded, and began to outline their plan.

➢

Smaug had set up a compound of sorts not far outside of Laketown, sinking his roots into the small town and conducting all manner of illicit business. He’d gathered an army of sorts, small, but very heavily armed. He’d been in the profiteering game for as long as Bard could remember, but now the name Smaug had become synonymous with mob activity in Britain. He had his fingers in just about every market; he was dealing drugs, selling black market weapons— everything from handguns to machine guns and bloody missiles— even trafficking women and children. 

Thorin and his team had been actively surveilling him for weeks at this point, and Bard found himself wondering if they’d followed Smaug here and found Bard later, or if it was the other way around. He tried not to think too long about how, no matter which order it had happened, Thorin had found them both because of their proximity. Bard’s family had been so close to danger for so long and he hadn’t even known. 

He tried his best to funnel his frustration and fear into the plan Thorin was laying out before him. They had already located Smaug’s compound and studied his routines, plotting everything from his delivery schedules to a near-complete list of clientele, identifying the few weak points of the operation.

In order to take Smaug down, they’d have to infiltrate. Neither Bard nor Thorin, nor any of the others who had faced him before could be the one to go inside. Here, the woman Bard had noticed earlier stepped forward. She was tall, made impossibly taller by her impeccable posture and the sturdy heels of the boots she wore. 

“This is Tauriel,” Thorin said. “She’s from MI5, who have given us their cooperation and support in this mission.” 

“I’ve been tracking Smaug for nearly four years,” Tauriel said. Her voice was strong and clipped, each decisive syllable leaving no room for argument or doubt. “My partner will be here shortly. He has been following his movements with interest for over ten years. It will be our priority to get inside the compound, to gather more pertinent information that you have not been able to obtain—“ 

“We’ve been able to obtain _plenty_ of information, lass,” Dwalin growled. He took a lumbering step toward Tauriel, though to her credit, she didn’t so much as flinch as he crowded into her personal space. “Don’t think we need your help to do our jobs—“ 

“Stand down.” The command hadn’t come from Thorin, as Bard had expected, but from someone behind him. Every eye in the room had turned toward the door leading outside. Rather than looking relieved, Tauriel seemed rather irritated at the interruption, which was another point in her favour as far as Bard was concerned. He turned around as well, just in time to see the mass of bodies parting for the man who’d just come in from outside. “I’ll thank you to stop intimidating my agent, soldier.” 

The man’s voice was deep and it brokered no argument, but it was also naggingly familiar. Bard turned briefly back to see Dwalin glare and step back from Tauriel, before turning his attention back toward the door. 

There, standing just inside the ring of light produced by the lamps along the walls, wearing a sharp grey woollen coat and peeling off a pair of leather gloves, was Thranduil. He glanced from Dwalin and Tauriel to Thorin and Balin, before finally looking at Bard. He flashed the barest hint of a smile at Bard’s stunned expression. Clearly, Thranduil was not surprised by his presence there. 

“I apologise for my tardiness,” he said. “I am Officer Thranduil Oropherion of the Military Intelligence section number five. I am here to represent the interests of the Security Service and to assist your operation in any way I can. I have been assigned the rank of Major for the purposes of this mission.”

Startled whispers sprung up all around the room. Bard could hear words here and there, mutterings of _MI5_ , and _Major?_ drifting above the din. Bard shared in their shock, but he remained silent. 

“We can save questions for later,” Thranduil said, holding out a hand that effectively silenced the entire room. “For now, please continue outlining our plan.” He pulled out the chair to Bard’s left and sat down, crossing one leg over the other. “Captain?” He said, motioning to Thorin, “as you were.” 

Thorin was absolutely fuming, and the offhand permission Thranduil had given him with that last comment only made things worse. His cheeks were blotchy and his lips had completely disappeared behind his short beard. He glared at Thranduil, and then at Bard, looking between them as though they’d been conspiring against him. Bard, for his part, was sure he looked just as confused as he felt.

Thorin looked to Balin, and Bard could see the wordless exchange for what it was. If Thorin spoke now, he would do irreparable damage to the company’s relationship with MI5, and Balin was level-headed enough to speak with the tact that Thorin so often lacked. 

Balin picked up where Tauriel had been interrupted, while Thorin stalked to the edge of the room to stand by the stranger Bard had noticed before. He was short, especially compared to Thorin, and he was very obviously not military. His hair was long and wavy, sticking out messily from his head, and he turned his whole body toward Thorin, plainly drawing attention to their closeness in a way that said he either didn’t know how to school his movements and his posture, or that he didn’t care. He touched Thorin’s arm and, to Bard’s surprise, Thorin didn’t brush him off. 

He’d completely tuned out of the conversation, and he couldn’t force himself to focus on anything Balin was saying. He pulled his attention away from Thorin and the stranger, only to have it pulled in by Thranduil. His head was swimming with questions: 

Had Thranduil known who Bard was when they’d first met? Was that why he’d approached him in the first place? Had he really been flirting with him the way he’d thought, or had Bard completely misread the situation? His cheeks burned at the thought, but he tamped it down, confident that he hadn’t ben reading into anything that wasn’t there. 

Thranduil sat at the table, though his chair was leaned toward Balin, and the angle afforded Bard the chance to observe him discretely. He definitely hadn’t been surprised to see Bard there, and he didn’t seem to be responding to his presence any more than he seemed to be aware of Thorin standing in the corner. He was cool, collected, and completely in control of the situation. 

Bard was absolutely none of those things.

➢

After the meeting was over, after Thorin had gathered up enough of his pride to step back into the centre of the room to finish outlining his plan, after countless arguments were sparked by Thranduil’s comments or questions— long after Bard’s head had begun to ache— the crowd finally began to disperse. Thorin was the first to storm from the room, followed closely by the stranger who still hadn’t been named. Most of the men left through the door that led to the rest of the cottage, since the entire company was sleeping in barracks there. Dwalin and Bifur stayed, motioning for Bard to follow them outside so they could lead him back to his truck. 

Bard looked to Thranduil, trying to grab his attention long enough to communicate with the arch of his eyebrows that they needed to talk. Thranduil nodded almost imperceptibly, and asked graciously if he could follow Dwalin and Bifur back to where they had parked their cars.

Dwalin grumbled and Bifur, though he scowled, didn’t say anything. He didn’t talk much, Bard knew. Not since he’d been injured by a flying piece of shrapnel that had cracked open his skull and embedded itself in his frontal lobe. It was a nasty injury, Bard knew. His hair, though wild and untamed, had never grown back around the deformed scar that stretched from above his left eyebrow toward the crown of his head. 

They all walked back in silence through the dark woods once the gate had opened and closed behind them, picking their way carefully down the path. When the small and overgrown car park came into view ahead, Dwalin turned brusquely away, grumbling, “You know the way back to town.” 

Bard did know the way back to town, and he was glad to finally be alone with Thranduil so they could talk, but he still frowned resentfully at Dwalin as he began to stalk back the way they’d come. 

Thranduil was already standing beside his car, a sleek black sedan with a sharp profile. “Follow me,” he said as he opened the door. Bard sighed, but he climbed into his truck and pulled out of the lot a respectable few seconds after Thranduil did. He appreciated discretion, and would rather not let anyone in the company know that they had held back to talk after the meeting, or that they had left together. 

Thranduil pulled into the car park of the first establishment they passed— a seafood shop whose owner often did business at the docks where Bard worked. Thranduil waited in his car while Bard parked along his passenger side, turned off the ignition, and climbed out of the truck. The air inside the sedan was warm when Bard opened the door, even though the drive hadn’t been quite long enough for the heating in his truck to begin working. 

He didn’t waste any time before asking, “Did you know I was going to be working with Thorin when we met?” 

“I’m not sure I see how that makes any difference,” Thranduil said, his voice calm and smooth. 

“It does make a difference, because I feel like I’ve made an arse out of myself, and I’d like to know if you were playing me for a fool those nights at the pub.” 

“Playing you?” Thranduil had the nerve to laugh, as though the thought was so absurd and Bard was absurd for thinking it. His smile faded though, when he turned to see Bard’s face. “No, Bard, I wasn’t playing you.”

Bard sighed at that small relief. “Did you know I was going to be there tonight?” 

“I had my suspicions. I knew Dwalin and Thorin from the research I did before coming here, so I recognised them those nights at the pub, and it became obvious who you were when you told me your name.”

“Christ,” Bard cursed, scrubbing his hands along his face and dragging his fingers through his hair. “I feel like an idiot.” 

“What for?” 

“Because I thought that you were interested. In _me_ , not just my connection to Thorin’s company. Christ, I practically threw myself at you, and now you’re my commanding officer.” 

“Only in title,” Thranduil said, as though this was a distinction that made even a speck of difference. “I’m only here to help and I’m not affiliated with the Army. My superiors just didn’t want me going in to a situation where I could be outranked.” 

“That makes things so much better,” Bard jibed. 

“And I was interested. In _you_ , not your connection to this assignment. You weren’t the only one flirting.” 

Bard sighed and closed his eyes, glad to know he hadn’t completely misread everything that had happened so far, but frustrated with the conflicts this now caused, and completely unsure what he felt about either of those things. “Were interested?” He asked, against his better judgement. This was all so completely wrong. 

“Am,” Thranduil corrected. His voice was low, barely more than a rumbling whisper, but Bard heard the words as clearly as if he’d shouted them. “I am interested.” 

Bard turned to him, and for the first time that night, he saw Thranduil in less than complete control. His brows were furrowed and his mouth was pursed, and Bard was relieved to know that maybe he wasn’t the only one who felt conflicted by all this. Thranduil studied him, ice blue eyes flashing in the light of a nearby lamp post. 

“I… I’m sorry that this is a conflict for you. I don’t mean to put you in this position, but I don’t regret anything that’s happened. I can’t regret meeting you just because the circumstances are less than ideal.” 

Less than ideal. Bard wanted to laugh. The circumstances were most definitely _significantly less_ than ideal, but a voice in the back of Bard’s mind whispered that he didn’t regret it, either. That same voice reminded him that he’d left the army, that he didn’t even have a rank, much less a commanding officer. It reminded him that any argument that could be made against this would only be theoretical and, once the job was done, completely moot. 

He studied Thranduil studying him, and he wondered where that left them. Thranduil, for his part, seemed to understand perfectly well where he stood, and so that left Bard to figure out what to do and what he wanted. Did Thranduil working at MI5 change the way Bard felt? Did it change the way he would do his job, or his drive to take Smaug down?

Thranduil seemed to be waiting for Bard to speak, but he couldn’t pin down anything to say. So instead, Bard simply did what he’d been wanting to do for days. He leaned over the centre console, sank his fingers into Thranduil’s silken hair, and kissed him.

➢

It was late when Bard finally made it home that night. The meeting in the woods had lasted for hours, and he and Thranduil had spent about another hour talking and… not talking. Bard had been able to feel himself blushing the entire drive home, and his embarrassment flared up again as he walked through the dark house, even though there was no one to be embarrassed in front of. 

Bard hadn’t kissed anybody in years, hadn’t even had a fling since Gwen had died, but something about Thranduil had stuck with him ever since that first conversation, and he’d only fallen deeper down that hole during the few nights since. 

He readied himself for bed wearily, barely able to keep his eyes open long enough to read the text that lit up his mobile. _We’ll have to find ways to sneak away more often,_ it said. 

Bard smiled and fell into a dreamless sleep.

➢

Three days later, Bard dropped Tilda, Bain and Sigrid off at Hilda’s house down the road. She was kind and generous, and she’d managed to befriend them all even though Bard had been fiercely paranoid when they’d first moved to town. 

Tilda ran straight into Hilda’s arms without even bothering to say goodbye to Bard. Bain gave him a small smile and a long hug before he slung his nap sack over his shoulder and climbed out of the truck. 

That left Bard and Sigrid. She hadn’t spoken more than two words to him since Bard had told her he was taking the job with Thorin’s company. He waited patiently, watching her in the rear-view mirror as she sat, arms crossed and eyes cast downward. 

Finally, she looked up to meet his eyes in the mirror, tears falling silently down her cheeks. 

Bard stepped out of the truck and pulled open Sigrid’s door just in time to catch her as she launched herself at him, wrapping her arms tightly around his neck and clutching his coat tight with both hands. She was crying in earnest now, each breath hitching and her shoulders shaking with her sobs. He said nothing as he held her, soothing his hand over her back. 

She spent so much of her time trying to be so grown up, Bard couldn’t even remember the last time he’d seen her cry like this. He wrapped his arms more tightly around her as tears pricked at his own eyes. He sniffed them back and pressed a kiss to her hair, pushing away thoughts of mission plans and preparations so that he could be there for her completely. She deserved that much, at least. 

Bard couldn’t say how long they stayed that way, but it was too soon when Sigrid stopped crying and eased herself back into her seat. She wiped her cheeks and levelled him with a sombre gaze, reminding him of her mother for what felt like the hundredth time that week. 

“If you get yourself killed, I’ll never forgive you,” she said. 

“I would never forgive me either,” he said, and he meant it. He didn’t care what it took; he _was_ going to come home to them. He was going to destroy the monster who’d torn his family apart— would kill the man himself if he got the chance— and he was going to come back for his children. He had to; there was no other option.

➢

The house felt different without anybody else in it. Bard stood at the base of the stairs, staring at the grain in the wood of the bannister. He had absolutely no idea what he was supposed to do now. Logically, he knew he needed to get ready to leave, knew that he should draw his old routines around him like a blanket and let them comfort him, but now that the time had come, he found he couldn’t remember them. 

Finally, he moved. He turned and began to climb the steps, listening to the creak of the aged wood with each of step. He reached the washroom first, and began gathering the essentials: his toothbrush and toothpaste, soap, and razor. He spied the hair clippers stashed beneath the sink and pulled them out, standing to his full height and studying himself in the mirror. 

He hadn’t cut his hair since he’d left the service five years ago; he hadn’t allowed it to grow this long since he’d been at uni, though streaks of grey had begun to work their way out from his temples. Those definitely had not been there when he was at uni.

He pulled his shirt up over his head and studied the clippers where he’d set them down on the edge of the sink. He looked at himself in the mirror again and sighed. He’d grown used to his hair, but it was impractical, and he knew it would only get in the way. 

He burrowed beneath the sink again until he found the bag of plastic guards. He didn’t want to shave his head outright, and so he snapped a number seven guard on over the blades. He plugged the cord into the power outlet beside the mirror and the clippers buzzed to life in his hand. 

He started behind his left ear, drawing the plastic guard against his scalp smoothly from his neck to his temple. He let the long lock of hair fall into the sink and reached back to make another pass. 

Slowly, his hair fell into the sink and onto the tiled floor around his feet, until Bard could run his hand over the soft, even buzz covering his head. He studied himself in the mirror again, noticing the ways his face seemed to have changed; his jaw seemed wider, and his features more severe now that there was nothing to hide it. It felt like looking at an old photograph, like looking at someone he didn’t remember knowing until he’d seen them again. 

He sighed and turned toward the door, stepping over the piles of his hair to go find the broom. He swept the floor and turned on the shower so the water was nearly scalding, and washing away the itchy shards of hair. 

When he reached the bedroom, he dressed in a simple henley and an old pair of brown combat trousers. he dropped to his knees and reached below the bed to pull out his old duffel bag, sorted through his wardrobe and rifled through all of his drawers, selecting only warm, dark clothing and stacking them inside the duffel.

He didn’t know how long he’d be away, didn’t know if he’d need more or less than he was packing, but he knew he had to start somewhere, and he would be able to make due with what he had. 

He crouched down in front of his closet next, pushing aside the shoeboxes on the floor until he could reach the keypad on his safe. The code was 240702, Sigrid’s birthday. Inside was his pistol and ammunition, Sigrid’s and Bain’s and Tilda’s birth certificates, and all of Bard’s savings. He took the gun, the bullets and his holster, and in their place he left a copy of his will and a letter he’d written to each of his children. He’d given Hilda a key to the house, along with the location and combination of the safe. She would need all of these things if Bard didn’t make it back.

He lugged his duffel down the stairs, sat at the kitchen table, and began to disassemble and clean his gun. In all likelihood, he wouldn’t need to use it; he knew Thorin would have his own arsenal in the cabin, and a single handgun wouldn’t make any difference when there were a few dozen long range rifles to use, but he would keep it with him regardless. 

He slipped his arms through the loops of his holster and secured the gun inside, quickly adjusting to the dense weight of it against his ribs. He pulled on his boots and tugged the laces tight, feeling himself slipping back into that mindset of order, discipline and pragmatism. It was easy, he realised, settling back into the comfort and familiarity of old habits. No matter how much time had passed, his muscles still remembered the satisfaction of a tightly regimented routine. 

Next he set to securing the house, double-checking that all the windows are locked and picking up anything that might blow away or be destroyed from the porch and the yard. 

Finally, he retrieved his mobile from the bedside table, pulled the cord from the wall and stowed them both away in his duffel. He’d told his children and Hilda that he wouldn’t be able to contact them while he was away, but made sure they all had the number, in case of emergency. Once he’d made one last sweep of the house, he shrugged into his jacket, slung his duffel over his shoulder, and locked the front door. 

Bard ran through lists in his mind, but he couldn’t think of anything he’d forgotten to do. He tossed his bag into the back seat, trying his hardest to ignore the way his chest tightened at the sight of the empty place where Tilda’s car seat usually sat, and climbed behind the wheel. 

Jaw clenched, he started the engine and drove away, toward the compound in the woods. He wondered if he’d stay here, in Laketown once this was all over. They would be able to go anywhere once they didn’t have to hide anymore, but he wasn’t sure he still hated this place as much as he had when they’d first come here. He focused on this as he drove, thinking of all the places Sigrid talked about visiting, and all the things Tilda hadn’t been able to see. It kept him focused on what was important: defeating Smaug, making it home to his children. Surviving.

➢

He made it to the overgrown park easily, even without Dwalin to guide him, and it wasn’t difficult to follow the path to the cabin on his own in the afternoon light. The wind was cold against his neck and against his scalp as it blew through his freshly cut hair, and Bard shivered despite himself. 

The electric gate didn’t open for him right away when he reached the perimeter of the safe house, but Bard wasn’t in any hurry. He waited for a minute before he heard the soft buzz and the gate swung open to let him through. There were still two sentinels standing guard on the porch, and he could see that it was Glóin and Nori as he came closer. 

“Bowman,” Glóin nodded to him as he climbed the steps. Bard had never been particularly friendly with him in the past, but he didn’t seem to be holding a grudge against him like some of the others in the company. 

“Glóin,” Bard replied. It was impossible to call anyone in the company by their surnames, since all of them were related and half of them shared a name with at least one other person. 

Bard opened the door and stepped inside, surprised to see that the kitchen was nearly empty. Nori’s brother Ori stood by the sink talking with the man Bard had seen the other night, though he still didn’t know his name. They both looked up at the sound of the door. 

“Bard,” Ori said, reaching out a hand for Bard to shake. “We weren’t sure when you’d arrive.” 

“Thorin has my number. He could have called if he was worried.” 

“Slim chance of that happening,” the stranger sniggered into his cup of tea. “If you know Thorin, you know he’s far too proud to ever show he’s worried over something like that. Hello, I’m Bilbo. Bilbo Baggins.” 

“Bard Bowman,” he replied, shaking Bilbo’s hand as well. 

“Oh, I’m well aware of who you are,” Bilbo said. His mouth was curled into a wry smile, though Bard couldn’t tell whether or not it was at his expense. “I’ve heard plenty about you from Thorin.” 

“I’ve heard absolutely nothing about you. But, well, you know Thorin.” Bilbo and Ori both laughed at that. 

“That I do,” Bilbo said with another smile, setting down his tea on the counter. “Come on, I’ll show you where you can put your things.” 

Bilbo led him through the cabin, pointing out rooms as they went, but Bard was more focused on trying to figure out how Bilbo factored into the plan. It wasn’t like Thorin to develop attachments to anyone who wasn’t family, but everything Bard had seen so far seemed to suggest that he’d done exactly that. He’d have to ask one of the others at a later date, once they stopped scowling at him every time he entered a room. 

“And here we are,” Bilbo said. “This is you.” They’d come to a small room at the rear of the cabin, which was surprisingly large for being hidden so deep within the woods. Three beds were crammed inside the room, each with a thin mattress rolled on top. 

“Who else is staying here?” Bard asked. He vaguely remembered Bilbo showing him several other rooms where the others were staying, some rooms containing as many as six beds while one of them contained only two. Each of those beds had been clearly occupied, but these ones looked as though they hadn’t been used in quite some time. 

“Thranduil and Tauriel, but they haven’t arrived yet,” Bilbo said, followed shortly by a reminder that dinner was served at 1800 hours, and that he wouldn’t want to be late. “All these soldiers in one house, you can imagine how quickly the food disappears. Now with three more mouths to feed, I’m going to have to figure something out,” he muttered as he left Bard to his own devices and retreated down the hall. 

So Bilbo made the food, then. Bard was still suspicious; everyone in the company had their own talents, true, but they didn’t need a designated cook any more than they needed a weapons manager. Just because that was Bilbo’s job didn’t mean that was his reason for being here, and Bard thought he could remember Bilbo saying _mine and Thorin’s_ when they’d passed one of the rooms on their way here. 

Bard was pretty sure it was the room with only two beds. 

Bard left the door open as he chose the bed along the outside wall. It was furthest from the door, but it was also closest to the window, and there was already a cold draught seeping from it. He didn’t want to force Thranduil or Tauriel to sleep beside it, and Bard had always run hot while he slept, and so a little cold wouldn’t bother him. 

He unrolled the thin mattress, old and stiff enough in the chill that it still held its curl and wouldn’t lay flat against the frame. He sat down rubbing the tension and weariness from his eyes. 

There was a knock at the door that sent Bard leaping to his feet and standing at attention. He sighed when he saw that it was only Bilbo. The man was short and dressed in a soft looking jumper, and his smile was warm as he held out a stack of sheets and blankets. It was clear to Bard that he didn’t belong here; life in the service cut away at all a person’s soft edges, and Bilbo was nothing but soft edges. 

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” Bilbo said, and it was clear by his look that he was almost as surprised as Bard was. “I only wanted to bring you these. Can’t be expected to sleep on these beds without a proper blanket.” 

“Thank you,” Bard murmured, and took the pile of sheets from him. 

“Right, well. I’d better get started on dinner. Six PM sharp, don’t forget!” 

Bard stood there for a moment after Bilbo had left, looking around the sparse room and the blankets he held in his arms, and then at the duffel he’d dropped onto the floor by the bed. _What am I doing here?_ he couldn’t help but to wonder. He belonged with his children, not here, with Thorin and his company, half of whom would gladly leave him to die if the choice presented itself. 

After a while— Bard couldn’t be sure how long it had been exactly— there was a small commotion in the hall outside. He looked up in time to see Ori in the doorway, and behind him, Thranduil appeared. Bard inhaled sharply.

“Bowman, is it?” Thranduil asked as he breezed into the room, a duffel over one arm and a pile of blankets tucked under the other. He held out his free hand and Bard shook it dumbly. He’d nearly forgotten what they’d discussed in the car the other night, about how it would be best if the others in the company didn’t find out about their… whatever it was that was going on between them.

Ori left just as quickly as he’d arrived, and Bard pulled his eyes away from Thranduil long enough to see that Tauriel had arrived with him. They each claimed a bed without any discussion while Bard still stood there. He was beginning to feel like an idiot, so he said the first thing that came to his mind. 

“Is this going to be alright for you?” he asked Tauriel. “Being the only woman and sharing a room?” 

“I am well used to the sacrifices required to work and live with men, Mr Bowman,” she replied with a cool indifference. “Though I would prefer if I did not have to see you naked. I will do you the same courtesy, of course.” 

“Of course,” Bard repeated. He glanced at Thranduil, who had already rolled out his mattress and fitted a sheet over it. He could see the hint of a smirk playing on his lips, even though he was turned away. “Right,” Bard muttered to himself, and set about making his bed. 

The company discussed the plans for the following day over dinner, instructions and reminders passed across the room, voices raised to be heard by those who hadn’t been able to fit around the small kitchen table.

“Our plan is to pose as buyers,” Thranduil said in between bites of bangers and mash. “Drugs will be the simplest cover, though not the most incriminating.” 

“We’re not here to build a case against him,” Thorin sneered from across the room. “The time for gathering intel has passed. We’re beyond that now. Our mission is to take down his operation as quickly and as completely as possible.” 

“You need not remind me, Captain,” Thranduil countered. Thorin bristled at the reminder that Thranduil outranked him. “I’ll remind you that this operation would not be happening at all if I had not advocated for such harsh measures with my superiors. But there will be reports that need to be filed, after this is all over, and the more evidence we can gather, the better. Or don’t you agree?” 

Thorin was fuming from his seat at the table. Nearly everyone had finished eating at this point, but no one had made any move to exit. Thorin grumbled something too low for Bard to catch, and he stood from the table, his chair scraping across the floor. Ori and Bofur volunteered to wash the dishes, and everyone else began to disperse after that, and Bard was glad to return to the relative privacy of his room and turn in for the night. 

There was only one washroom in the cabin, and already there was a queue stretching down the hallway to use the shower or the toilet. Bard bypassed them all, glad he’d taken a shower earlier in the day. He passed Tauriel on her way out of the bedroom, and he told her about the wait for the washroom, but she didn’t care. 

“There is a shower outside,” she said. “Crude, but it will suffice.” She set off down the hall and Bard turned in time to see Kíli and Fíli staring at her openly as she walked past them. 

Bard shook his head and strode into the small bedroom, easing himself down onto his bed. 

“You cut your hair,” Thranduil said. He stood beside his own bed with his duffel laid open on the mattress. Bard watched as he deftly opened the buttons of his shirt and pulled his undershirt over his head, his own long hair falling around his shoulders in a cascade of gold. 

“Aye,” Bard said, averting his eyes. He dragged his hand over the fuzzy curve of his scalp. “It’s easier to manage this way.” 

“How long has it been since you wore it this short?”

Bard looked at him again to see that he’d pulled on a threadbare sleep shirt that accentuated his broad chest. “Five years,” he swallowed thickly and looked away again as Thranduil began to unbutton his trousers. “I thought maybe it would help. Make this all a bit easier.” 

“And has it?” Thranduil’s voice was closer now, and Bard could see his bare feet approaching as he stared at the floor. “Made it easier?” 

Bard let his eyes travel up from Thranduil’s feet, following the soft flannel of his pyjama bottoms and the hard lines of his abdomen and chest beneath his shirt. When he met Thranduil’s eyes, they were gentle and warm, and Bard felt a sharp twinge in his chest. 

“Not really,” he confessed. “I don’t think I’m well suited for this life anymore. I’m… I’ve gone soft. I can’t stop worrying. About my children, about the plan.” Bard couldn’t hold his gaze any longer, not with the next words that came out of his mouth. “I’m worried about you, going in there with Smaug.”

Thranduil’s hands were soft at the bare skin of Bard’s neck, his fingers carding easily through the short hair at the base of his skull. He knelt down in front of him. 

“You haven’t gone soft,” he said, quiet as a whisper. “And there’s nothing to worry about.” A commotion rose up from somewhere near the washroom, but theirs was the last room in the hall and no one would walk by on chance. Thranduil was of a hight with him, kneeling on the floor while Bard sat on his thin mattress, and it was an easy thing, to lean forward and kiss him. 

It was not such an easy thing to banish the worry from his mind.

➢

They all rose early the next day. Bard had lay awake for hours that night, staring into the pitch blackness even though he was bone tired. He rose with the sun and padded into the kitchen, surprised to find Bilbo already seated at the table. A pot of coffee was brewing on the counter, but he had a mug of steaming tea for himself. He sat dipping the teabag repeatedly, not noticing Bard until he cleared his throat to announce his presence. 

“Oh, Bard,” Bilbo said. “You startled me.” 

“Fair’s fair,” Bard said with a smile. 

“I suppose you’re right,” he laughed 

“Why are you up so early?” 

“I don’t think I actually slept,” Bilbo sighed.

“I wouldn’t either,” Bard said, pouring himself a cup of coffee. “Not if Thorin still snores the way he used to.” 

“I think it’s only gotten worse, actually.” The bags beneath Bilbo’s eyes seemed to brighten as he laughed. “And you? What has you up so early?” 

Bard sat across the table from him and took a sip of coffee. It was terrible, but he didn’t say anything about it. “I couldn’t sleep much either,” he confessed. 

“Are you worried as well?” Bard blinked at Bilbo, surprised at his insight, his bluntness, or both. “I know you’ve been out of the service for a few years,” Bilbo said by way of explanation. “You and I, we’re not quite like the others, are we?” 

“No, I suppose not,” Bard said after a moment, remembering what he’d said to Thranduil the night before. “You and Thorin,” he began, then reconsidered. But he’d already said it, and the look Bilbo gave him held no malice or contempt. “You care for him.”

“I do,” Bilbo stated. “It’s no secret around here that we’re…”

“Together?” 

“Not as such, no. He’s far too stubborn for that. But we care for each other, as you said.” Bilbo smiled, but it struck Bard as a rather sad thing, not helped at all by the bags beneath his eyes as he stared into his cup of tea. 

“It’ll be alright,” Bard said, though he still hadn’t convinced himself of it yet. “All we need to do is stick to the plan, and we’ll all be fine.” 

“I hope you’re right,” Bilbo said. Bard hoped he was, too. 

The cabin seemed to wake up all at once after that. Soon the kitchen was flooded with bodies, all of them crowding around the percolator or fussing over the kettle. Bard took the opportunity to disappear in the commotion. He returned to his bed, retrieved his toiletries and a change of clothes, and snuck away to use the shower before a queue began to form.

➢

Bard lay on his stomach on the rocky ground, a rifle perched against a boulder that hid his position at the edge of the forest nearby Smaug’s base. It was a sprawling warehouse compound made up of three individual buildings, and Bard could see them all from his place above them. There was no fence surrounding the area, but there were several armed guards patrolling the perimeter and cameras mounted on each building. 

After breakfast, he’d left the cabin on foot along with Balin, Ori, Kíli, Bofur and Glóin. They’d spread out once they were deep in the woods, and took up posts at even intervals around Smaug’s base. Bard had been here for an hour or so, watching the guards below him pace back and forth through the sight on his rifle. 

His job was to wait here, to watch, and to report back. He had an open channel wired to an earpiece where he, Ori, Bofur, Kíli and Glóin checked in with command every five minutes, noting the changeover of Smaug’s guards and their routines.

Thranduil and Tauriel weren’t scheduled to arrive until after noon, which was still more than an hour away, but it felt good to be _doing something_ , even if that something was to sit here, silently, and watch. Bard was good at this. He’d spent most of his life waiting for one thing or another. He’d made a career out of lying in wait, only acting when the moment was perfect. He’d spent the last five years in hiding, waiting for danger to find him, and now here he was, scoping out danger’s front door.

He checked his watch— 10:55— and sent the signal over the radio. “Sniper two to command. All clear.” He listened until all five of the other scouts had done the same, and then he set his rifle down. 

This wasn’t the strangest place he’d been for a job, but it wasn’t the most comfortable, either. Most of his perches had been on roofs or hotel room windows. Here, there were no level surfaces to set up a bipod, no chairs to sit in to keep his back from aching, but he enjoyed the challenge of a rougher spot. 

He sat with his back to the boulder and pulled a bottle of water from his knapsack, drinking from it greedily. He pulled his mobile from his pocket. The cabin was in a dead zone and so the device was low on battery after searching for signal all night, but there was still plenty to last through his shift.

There was a text from Thranduil saying that they were on their way to town. Bard smiled briefly, glad that Thranduil had thought to let him know, even if he would have been kept updated through the radio. 

The plan was that Thranduil and Tauriel would drive into town and hang around for a while, asking some of the seedier people if they knew where they could score, knowing someone would point them to Smaug eventually. 

Bard typed out a message in reply, _be safe._ , and slid the mobile back into his pocket. Almost immediately it vibrated with another message, and he pulled it out again. 

_I always am._

Bard rolled his eyes with a fond smile and pocketed the mobile again before settling back onto his stomach and picking up the rifle again. 

Nothing had changed down below, and he sent the all clear signal again three minutes later. 

The next hour passed in much the same way, with Bard taking periodic breaks to drink water and relieve himself further inside the tree line. 

Soon, he got the signal that Thranduil and Tauriel had found a contact to bring them to Smaug and were on their way. Bard could see the very end of the road that led into the compound, and he checked for a car every few minutes. There was no change in the guards’ behaviour, and soon an old blue sedan appeared at the end of the road. 

He radioed to command that the agents were in sight, and watched as three people climbed out of the car. 

At first he wondered if he was mistaken— Thranduil and Tauriel were the very image of complete control, and now were hardly recognisable. 

Thranduil was dressed in ratty, baggy clothes that made him look tall and lanky, completely hiding his muscular frame. His face looked long and drawn, and his hair was tangled. Tauriel wore tight jeans and a cropped shirt beneath a giant coat, and she looked just as strung out as Thranduil did. 

A third person had climbed out of the driver’s side door, and after a moment, Bard realised he knew the man who’d brought them. It was Alfrid, slimy bastard. Bard shouldn’t have been surprised to know Alfrid was into shit like this, but he couldn’t believe he’d been so close to Smaug all this time and had no idea. 

He grit his teeth and settled in to watch as one of the guards met Thranduil, Tauriel and Alfrid beside their car before leading them into the nearest of the warehouses. Then they were inside, and there was nothing to do but wait. 

Bard had been waiting for years, had made a career out of it, but now, knowing that Smaug was here and that Thranduil was inside with him, it seemed like an impossible task.

➢

Soon, Dwalin came to relieve Bard and take up his post. Thranduil and Tauriel were still inside, and Bard felt anxious leaving now, but he was tired and sore, and there was no reason for him to stay. So he pulled back from his perch behind the boulder, disassembled his rifle, and packed it away in his knapsack. He knew he hadn’t left any rubbish behind, but he double checked anyway, and then walked silently into the trees. 

The cabin was just over two kilometres from the compound, and he made good time, not bothering to mask the sounds of his footsteps once he was far enough into the forest. 

A hush covered the cabin grounds when he arrived, everyone inside besides Bifur, who was standing sentry at the front door. Balin had already made it back from his post, and he was sitting in the living room with Thorin, the radio on the table in front of them. 

“We don’t know who he was, neither of them wasn’t wearing a wire,” Balin was saying. 

“I told you he should have been,” Thorin growled.

“It would have only put them both in danger. You know it wasn’t worth it,” Bilbo chipped in, quieting Thorin with a hand on his shoulder rather than with the logic of his statement.

“I know,” Thorin sighed. “I just hate having this variable. We should have made our own contact in the town before we went in like this.” 

“We discussed this at length already. It has to be as organic as possible. Smaug wouldn’t trust them otherwise.” 

“I know we did, but he’s a liability. I wish we at least knew his name.” 

“His name’s Alfrid,” Bard said. “Alfrid Lickspittle. I’ve always known he was an arsehole, but I had no idea he was into this shit.” 

“How do you know him?” Thorin asked with wide eyes. 

“He works at the docks. Has his slimy fingers in the manager’s pockets, too,” Bard grimaced, “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s involved too.” 

“Do you think we can use him? As leverage or as a witness if we need to?” Balin asked. 

“I have no doubt that he’ll roll over and squeal under a little bit of pressure,” Bard sneered. “But I wouldn’t rely on him. He’s only loyal as long as he can get something out of it for himself.” 

Thorin nodded and turned to Balin. “Radio back to Gandalf. See what we can find out about Alfrid Lickspittle.” 

Bard took this as his cue to leave. He carried his knapsack down the hall and to his room, set it down at the foot of his bed, and lay down. He didn’t sleep— didn’t think he could even if he tried— but he knew sitting out there with the others and listening to Thorin would only make him more anxious. 

After a while, Bard got up and made his way to the kitchen for some water, and he heard the radio crackle in the living room. He heard Dwalin’s grumbling voice letting them know Thranduil and Tauriel were leaving the compound.

Bard sighed in relief, glad that they were out of danger now. And even though he still had to wait for them to return from the town, at least he knew they were out of immediate danger.

➢

Thranduil and Tauriel returned nearly two hours later to little fanfare. Dwalin and the others who had taken the second watch shift were still out in the woods, still monitoring for unusual activity, still reporting back every five minutes. Bard stood against the counter as Thranduil began to describe the inside of the warehouse where they’d been, drawing a rough diagram on a sheet of paper while Tauriel added details and notes of her own. 

“I saw no evidence of anything besides the drugs, but if I were Smaug, I wouldn’t put the weapons with the cocaine, either.” 

“It’s not much,” Thorin sighed. 

“It’s as much as we could get on a single visit.” Thranduil said. There was an edge to his voice, and Thorin didn’t push him any further on the subject. 

“What about the man? Your contact?” 

“He said his name was Allen, but he didn’t respond to it consistently.” 

“It’s Alfrid,” Bard supplied. 

“He’s a slimy fucker,” Tauriel spat. “He grabbed my arse three times, and I had to pretend like it was fine. I _giggled_ ,” she glowered. 

“You were very convincing, if that makes you feel any better,” Thranduil told her. 

Tauriel seemed to consider it for a moment, her head tilted to one side. “It does, actually.” 

“Glad to have that sorted out,” Thorin said. Bard could see Tauriel scowl at him. “Alright, that’s enough for the day. Call the others back. We won’t learn anything else until we go back in.” 

Everyone dispersed, and Bilbo enlisted Dori’s help with making dinner. Thranduil followed Bard down the hall and into their small room, while Tauriel stayed behind, talking to Kíli in the living room. Thranduil closed the door part way, but he didn’t latch it. Although Bard wanted him to, wanted the privacy of a closed door, he knew it would arouse suspicion. 

“You’re sure you’re alright?” He asked, stepping close into Thranduil’s personal space and resting a hand on his cheek. “You look terrible,” he said, and he meant it. He’d only been able to see him for a short while through his rifle sight, and he tried to avoid looking directly at him in the kitchen for fear that he’d end up staring blatantly. 

“Tauriel may not wear any makeup on her own, but she certainly knows how to apply it” he said. “My hair is a different story.” 

“It looks ridiculous. I’m glad I don’t have to worry about that anymore.” Bard smiled cheekily and ran a hand over his close cut hair.

“Hm, I do like this look on you,” Thranduil purred. “It’s sexy, but it does have its drawbacks.” 

“And what might those be?” Bard asked, he stepped closer to Thranduil, tipping his chin up so he could hold Thranduil’s gaze. “I’ve not found any yet.” 

“There’s nothing to touch,” Thranduil purred, drawing his fingers over Bard’s shorn head. “Nothing to hold on to.” He scraped his fingernails across Bard’s scalp, fist closing around nothing but air. 

Bard’s eyes had fallen nearly closed and he reached out to steady himself, hands landing on Thranduil’s chest, his shape hidden by the hideous clothes he wore. He was fairly certain he’d stopped breathing. 

A small sound came from the doorway, and Thranduil immediately stepped away. It took Bard several seconds to realise what had happened— Tauriel was standing at the door, a small smile on her lips as she glanced back and forth between the two of them. “Should I come back?” She asked.

“No, there’s no need for that, Tauriel.” Thranduil said. He would have been the very image of composure, had it not been for the rats’ nest in his hair and the dark circles beneath his eyes. Bard found himself in rather the opposite situation; he didn’t trust himself even to speak. 

“Shall I help you brush out your hair?” She asked. “You’ve been complaining about it enough.” 

“Only as much as you’ve complained about your arse being grabbed,” he countered.

In the end, Bard sat behind Thranduil on his bed and helped him with his hair. He ran his fingers through it appreciatively as he brushed out the tangles, content to sit quietly by him as the evening wore on.

➢

Nothing much happened for two days after that first mission. Everyone was beginning to grow restless by the second day, Thorin most of all, but Thranduil insisted they wait a couple of days before going in again. It wouldn’t do them any favours to be hasty, and they couldn’t do anything to arouse Smaug’s suspicion. 

Bard could see the wisdom in this plan, but the waiting was beginning to wear at him, as well. He was not used to living with so many people, and they couldn’t leave the cabin grounds except for their scheduled watch shifts. Target practise was out, since Smaug was close enough that they couldn’t risk the shots being heard. 

Nothing happened during Bard’s watch on the first day, and the second day was uneventful as well, until his watch was nearing its end. He was scanning the compound through the sight on his rifle, when he saw movement outside the nearest warehouse. He paused his sweep and watched as a small train of people stepped out into the cool air. Some were obviously guards, their rifles aimed down at the ground by their feet, but there was one other person Bard couldn’t identify. 

He waited for a long minute, until the man turned around and he could see his face. Bard froze as he stared, both eyes open as he kept his sight trained on him. 

Bard would know that face anywhere. It was the face he saw whenever he thought of Gwen, the face that had haunted his dreams for years, had driven him from his old life and into hiding here, in this shit town. It was Smaug.

Bard came back to himself with a start. His heart was racing and his breath was heavy, and there was a voice buzzing in his ear. 

_Sniper two, come in. Sniper two, do you read?_

Bard wasn’t sure how long he’d been staring, watching Smaug as he talked with his guards down below. 

“Sniper two to command,” he said, aware that his voice was shaking but unable to do anything to hide it. “We have movement outside. It’s Smaug, I have him in my sights. I repeat, the target is in sight.” 

_Sniper two, say again._ It was Thorin’s voice on the other end of the radio, Bard realised. 

“Smaug is outside.” The line was silent as Bard’s heart continued to race. He focused on keeping Smaug in his crosshairs, curled his finger over the trigger without actually touching it, worried that the shaking in his hands would cause him to shoot prematurely. “What do I do?” He asked, hoping that Thorin would give the order to shoot, and dreading it at the same time.

The line was still silent. 

“Sniper two to command. Come in, command.” Bard could feel the first hints of panic trickling through him. He blinked, and Smaug was looking out into the trees off to his left. He blinked again, and suddenly Smaug was looking directly at him, a sadistic smile on his angular face. His eyes met Bard’s so sharply, so directly, that Bard was sure he’d been found out. His finger was resting feather light on the trigger, his heart pounding so loudly in his ears that for a second he thought the gun had gone off in his hands. 

He was about to radio back to Thorin that his cover had been blown. 

But then he blinked again and Smaug was turned away, talking lazily to one of his guards as if he’d never been doing anything else. Bard snatched his finger away from the trigger, breath coming harsh through his nose. He couldn’t be sure if Smaug truly had seen him, or if his mind had been playing tricks on him.

 _Sniper two, come in sniper two. Do not engage, I repeat. Do not engage._ Thorin’s voice was suddenly shouting in his ear. _Sniper two, acknowledge._

“Acknowledged,” Bard replied, unable to hide the breathless hitch in his voice. 

_Sniper two, prepare to return to base. Stand by for backup, ETA six minutes._ Thorin’s voice was hard as stone. 

“Copy,” Bard said. Shame burned in his gut, as though Thorin knew he’d fucked up— but Thorin didn’t know anything Bard hadn’t told him, and he hadn’t done anything wrong— not really. He told himself this repeatedly while he waited for backup to arrive, but it did nothing to make him feel better. 

He still held his rifle up by his shoulder, muzzle perched in the dip of the boulder, but he could barely keep Smaug in his sight with how much his hands were shaking. He kept watching as Smaug turned around to go back inside, kept watching until he’d disappeared inside the building and the door had swung closed. He was just close enough that he could hear the door to the warehouse slam closed, and the distant sound echoed terribly in his ears. 

It seemed like seconds later when Ori arrived to relieve him, though he knew it must have been longer than that. Bard gingerly edged away from his perch behind the boulder and slowly, numbly began to unload and disassemble his rifle. 

“Bard,” Ori said, softly but firmly. Bard got the feeling it wasn’t the first time his name had been called. 

“Yeah.”

“Go straight back to the cabin. You look terrible.” 

“Yeah, thanks,” Bard said, without a hint of bitterness. It occurred to him, as he was walking through the trees, that he might be in shock. He couldn’t stop seeing that smirk on Smaug’s face, the way he’d looked directly at him, as though he’d known Bard was there, like he’d come outside only to toy with him, to get under his skin. 

It had worked. Bard was shaking again. His hands clenched into fists, arms locked tight against his sides. He paused to lean against the wide trunk of a tree.

He might have stood there for hours or minutes before Thranduil showed up, cheeks flushed and breath turning to fog in the air. 

“Bard, hey. I heard over the radio what happened. Are you alright?” Thranduil asked. He peeled off a leather glove and cupped Bard’s cheek. His hand was intensely warm and just like that, Bard realised how cold he was. He was still shaking, though he supposed it could be shivering. “You’re white as a sheet.”

“I saw Smaug,” he said. 

“I know.” 

“I think he— I don’t know if I was seeing things, but I think— I think he saw me.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I could have sworn he looked right at me,” Bard said, “like he knew exactly where I was. He was smiling. He had this terrible look in his eyes, like he had when…” Bard trailed off, staring into the dead brown leaves on the ground. He was even less sure now than he had been before.

“Like he had been when what?” Thranduil coaxed. Bard could feel himself swaying on his feet, could see black spots creeping into the corners of his vision. “Bard, hey. Breathe, come on.” Bard felt lost, fading, like the world was falling away and all that was left was Smaug, and Gwen, lying silent and cold in their bed, and _that smile_. 

And then Thranduil was there, holding him steady, one hand gripping the back of his neck, trying to ground him, pulling him out of the memory and back into the forest. “You’re alright now, Bard. You’re here with me and everything is fine. Can you hear me? Everything is going to be alright.” Bard tried to breathe as Thranduil instructed, each inhale and exhale counted out in slow beats until his vision was clear and his shaking had calmed to a slight tremble.

They were on the ground he realised. Bard’s legs were tangled beneath him and Thranduil was kneeling directly in front of him, so close that he could smell the sharp scent of his soap. Bard breathed deeply, trying to focus on that smell and the feeling of crisp leaves beneath him, the hard press of the rocky earth beneath his legs. 

“There you go, you’re alright. I’m here, it’s okay,” Thranduil whispered. “Can you stand?” 

Bard tried, but he couldn’t speak yet. He closed his eyes and took stock of himself, realising with some surprise that he was clutching tightly to Thranduil’s coat with both hands. Thranduil had one hand at Bard’s shoulder and the other at the nape of Bard’s neck, soothing small circles over the skin there. 

Bard leaned forward until his forehead came to rest on Thranduil’s shoulder. He let himself stay there for a moment, trying his hardest not to see Smaug’s face, or remember how peaceful Gwen had looked when he’d found her that night. 

He opened his eyes again and took a deep, trembling breath, the scent of dead leaves and winter pines grounding him further in the moment. Thranduil helped him to stand on shaky legs, and they finished the short walk back to the cabin. 

Bard pushed away all thoughts of Smaug, and thought instead of his children, his resolve solidifying with each step. It didn’t matter if he had been imagining things or not, didn’t matter if Smaug knew they were watching him. This time would be different. 

This time, Bard would be ready.

➢

On the third day, Bard woke hours before the dawn. He was scheduled for the first watch again today; he was sure Thorin thought it was a punishment, having to wake up so early and go out into the bitter cold every morning, but Bard didn’t mind. 

The room was dark as he climbed out of bed, and the cabin was silent. Not even Bilbo was sitting in the kitchen with his tea, as he had been every other morning. Bard took a slow, lazy shower, taking advantage of the fact that there was no one else waiting for it, and dressed in silence. He wore another thermal knit henley, thick trousers and socks. Today would be colder than the other days he’d been on watch, if the frost on the windows was any indication. 

He put on a pot of coffee and filled the kettle with water for tea. Nobody else in the cabin woke while he drank his coffee, but he knew it wouldn’t be too long before they began to stir. 

When he was finished, Bard made his way back down the hall and crept silently into his shared bedroom. He listened to the early morning silence for a moment before he crossed the room to where Thranduil still slept, his socks barely a whisper against the worn wooden floor. 

He knelt beside Thranduil’s bed, doing nothing but studying him for a moment. Then he lifted a hand to gently brush a few strands of hair away from his face, and Thranduil blinked awake. 

“What time is it?” He asked. Bard smiled at the gravelly tone of sleep in his voice and ran his fingers through the hair at Thranduil’s temple again. 

“Don’t worry, it’s early still.” Thranduil frowned as his eyes flashed over Bard, taking notice of his clothes, no doubt noticing the smell of coffee on his breath and soap on his skin. “I couldn’t sleep,” Bard said, by way of explanation, “thought I’d go out early.” 

“What, why?” Thranduil asked, propping himself up with an arm against his pillow. His hair was white in the darkness of the room, the only light coming from the moon where it hung beyond the trees outside their draughty window. Thranduil shivered. “What are you planning?” 

“Nothing,” Bard assured him. “I told you, I couldn’t sleep.” He shrugged. “And maybe I don’t love the idea of facing all the others after what happened yesterday.” 

“You shouldn’t go out alone.”

“I’ll be alright. No one else is awake at this hour, not even the mob.” 

“I think I’d consider this closer to late than early,” Thranduil said, checking the time on his mobile where it sat on the mattress beside his pillow. “Don’t leave yet. Stay here with me for a while, at least until someone else wakes up.” 

Bard breathed a gentle, fond sigh as he studied Thranduil. “Alright,” he said finally. He supposed it wouldn’t hurt. “Move over.” 

Thranduil did. He shifted backward until he was nearly pressed against the wall as Bard climbed into the small bed beside him. It was a tight fit but they made it work, each lying on their sides, face to face, chests nearly touching as Bard let himself relax against the mattress.

Thranduil reached out to lay a hand over Bard’s jaw, his thumb sweeping back and forth across his cheekbone. Bard smiled against his palm, turning his head slightly to press a kiss to the skin of his wrist. Then Thranduil drew him closer and Bard kissed him properly on the lips, slow and unhurried in the dark of the pre-dawn. Bard reached to card his fingers through the hair at the base of Thranduil’s neck, humming softly at the feel of it.

“You were right,” he said against Thranduil’s lips. “It is better when you have hair to hold on to.” 

Thranduil laughed, a quiet, breathy chuckle. “Now you see what you’ve deprived me of for the sake of convenience,” he teased. Bard kissed him again, heedless of Thranduil’s morning breath and content to just be close to him.

“Why does this feel like a goodbye?” Thranduil whispered when they had both settled onto the pillow again. 

“It’s not,” Bard said with a frown. “Of course it’s not.” 

“Do you promise?” 

There were thousands of things that could happen before he saw Thranduil again, and all of them were out of his control. Bard found himself thinking of the promise he’d made to Sigrid when he’d left days before. He knew that it wasn’t something he could promise with any certainty, but he did anyway. “I promise,” he whispered.

➢

Bard must have fallen back to sleep at some point, because the next time he opened his eyes, dawn had painted the room in shades of grey. He wasn’t sure what had woken him at first. Thranduil was still asleep beside him and the room was quiet. He pressed a kiss to Thranduil’s forehead and stood up slowly, reluctant to wake him again. 

Tauriel was sitting upright in her own bed, studying Bard with an inscrutable expression. “In all the years I’ve known him, Thranduil has never let himself get close to anyone,” she said, her voice only just loud enough for Bard to hear. “He doesn’t trust anyone. Not even me; not truly. He keeps everybody at a safe distance. Everyone except you.” 

Bard could hear movement elsewhere in the cabin; dishes clinking in the kitchen and quiet conversation in the hall, the water running in the shower. “I don’t know what to say,” he confessed. 

“You don’t need to say anything,” she said. “Just… don’t let him down. Don’t hurt him. I know at least a dozen ways to kill a man without a weapon, if you do.” 

Bard studied her for a moment as she stared at him. She didn’t wear the the same mask of hard indifference she usually did; her expression was open, her mouth turned downward at the corners and her brows furrowed with worry. “I believe you,” he said, but instead of fear, all he felt was glad that Thranduil had someone who cared for him so fiercely. 

“Good,” she said. She stood from her bed and just like that, she was back to the terse and hardened Tauriel that Bard had grown used to. She lifted her duffel bag over her shoulder and opened the door, starting off down the hall and past the queue that was forming for the washroom.

➢

In the end, Bard didn’t end up getting much of an early start at all. He left the cabin with Nori and the others assigned to the first watch shortly after he’d returned to his room to retrieve his gun, and to say goodbye to Thranduil— again. He found his holster where he’d left it the night before and slid it over his shoulders. He slipped the gun into place beneath his left arm and checked that there were extra rounds in the pouch beneath his right while Thranduil pulled his hair back into a messy bun. 

“No use washing or brushing it out when it’s just going to be messed up again,” he said with a sigh. Bard found he rather liked the look of it, and he told him so with a brief but passionate kiss and his hands buried in the loose drape of hair at the nape of Thranduil’s neck. 

Tauriel paused just inside the door on her way back from the outdoor shower, a silent lookout for anyone who might happen upon them. She cleared her throat softly just as Bard found himself in danger of getting lost in Thranduil’s kiss. 

“Be careful today,” he said. “I’ll be watching out for you.” 

“I know you will,” Thranduil said, pressing a final, gentle kiss to Bard’s lips.

➢

Bard had been right when he’d suspected that this would be the coldest day he’d been on watch so far. He had laid a blanket out over the ground, but the cold still seeped through his coat and the fleece blanket, biting into his legs as he lay behind his boulder. It was already after noon, but the sun didn’t reach his perch, and had done little to warm the air. 

He watched as Thranduil and Tauriel arrived in the old blue sedan. He watched as Alfrid opened the door for Tauriel and slid a hand over her arse beneath her bulky jacket. He watched as Tauriel laughed and pushed his hand away playfully, smiling at the knowledge of how badly she probably wanted to punch him in the face. Thranduil still had his hair in a bun, and Bard could swear he saw him smirk in his general direction. 

“Teasing bastard,” Bard muttered to himself with a smile, before radioing back to command that they were inside and settling himself in to wait. 

It wasn’t long before Bard heard a commotion from down below. Everything looked calm outside, but he thought he heard raised voices and a crash, muffled from this distance, but sharp, like a metal door slamming. He held his breath as he listened, and waited, and when he’d heard nothing after a long moment, he sighed. 

And then it came: the sound of a gunshot, loud and unmistakable and definitely coming from the compound below him. 

“Sniper two to command,” Bard said into his radio. His voice was raised but steady as he scanned the area through the sight on his rifle. His heart pounded against his ribs, marking the seconds as he waited for a response on the radio. 

“Sniper two to command,” he repeated. “Shots fired.” This time, the response was immediate. 

_Sniper two, say again?_

“We have shots fired,” Bard repeated, frantically searching each of the windows. 

_Tell me what you see._ Bard was equal parts relieved and terrified to hear Thorin’s voice come through the radio. 

_Nothing,_ Bard was about to say, but in that same moment he caught a flash of motion out of the corner of his sight. It had come from a window in the old warehouse where Thranduil and Tauriel had gone. “Standby,” Bard said as he swung his rifle to focus there. The angle was poor, and the glass was dirty enough that it partially obscured his view inside, but the blur of blond hair he saw through it was unmistakable. 

It was Thranduil, with his back to the window. He looked like he was struggling with someone, but Bard couldn’t be sure. “It’s Thranduil. Sleeper one has engaged the target, please advise.” 

There was a long, agonising moment of silence over the radio while Bard watched what he could through the window. 

_Sniper one, hold your position. Do not engage, I repeat, do not engage. Let’s see how this plays out._

“Those are our people in there,” Bard growled. “Their cover might have been blown, we can’t wait!” 

_Those are not **our** people,_ Thorin growled, _Their safety is not more important than the integrity of this mission._

Bard was breathing heavily. His shock at Thorin’s words made him slow to understand what happened next. 

There was the sound of another gunshot, and then another. There was a pause. Through the window Bard could see Thranduil still, could make out the shape of him well enough that he saw the blood splash onto the glass as a third shot rang out. The glass was cracked around where the bullet had punched through. 

For a moment, it was as if Bard was underwater. His pulse crashed in his ears and he watched with unfocused eyes as Thranduil’s form slumped out of sight beneath the window. “No,” he said, his voice the only sound in the ringing quiet. 

“Man down!” he shouted into his radio, not waiting for orders before he was on his feet, leaping over the boulder and running toward the warehouse at a full sprint. He raised his rifle to his shoulder when the guards outside noticed him, taking each of them down with a single shot as he ran. He burst through the door he’d seen Thranduil use, trying and failing to remember the rough sketches Thranduil had drawn out days before to show the layout of the warehouse. 

He charged ahead, rifle first, taking down two more guards before either of them could get a shot off at him. He paused to listen when he came to a door, and through it he could hear the unmistakable whine of Alfrid’s voice. That was enough. He yanked the door open and charged in, barreling his way around a precarious stack of cardboard boxes and coming face to face with the man who had fuelled all of his nightmares for five years. 

“Bowman,” Smaug purred. His mouth was turned up in an impish smile that made Bard’s stomach curl. “So glad you could make it. I assume you’ve come for your little pet?” He asked, motioning to where Tauriel and Alfrid stood to one side. Alfrid held her with one arm around her neck and the other wrenching her arm behind her. She was angry as all hell, but she looked to be unharmed. Then Bard sought out Thranduil, and he found him crumbled on the floor against the wall to the left. 

He wasn’t moving.

“Oh,” Smaug laughed and shifted his gaze to Thranduil as well. “Oh this is unexpected. I have to admit, I didn’t fancy you for a poof,” he said, already crossing the room with his large chrome revolver in his hand.

He dove down and snatched at Thranduil’s hair with his free hand, hauling him bodily up to his knees. Thranduil hissed weakly in pain, but the sound was like music in Bard’s ears. He was bleeding heavily from his right shoulder and his face was pale, but he was _alive_. It was more than Bard had dared to hope for. 

Smaug still gripped him by the hair and waved his gun dismissively at Bard. “Drop your rifle, Bowman, or I’ll put a bullet in his head.” 

Bard’s mind raced as he considered his options. Dwalin was the closest on watch, and he had to have seen Bard shoot his way inside. There had been a commotion of voices coming through his radio since he’d left his post, but Bard hadn’t heard a single word and he knew he couldn’t count on Thorin to send him backup. He also knew that guards from elsewhere in the compound would realise what had happened eventually, and when they did he’d be surrounded. He could try to blow his way out, but he didn’t think he could do it without losing Thranduil or Tauriel, or both of them. 

“Bard, don’t,” Thranduil cried. His eyes were glassy from pain and blood loss, but they were focused on Bard. 

Smaug swung his gun hand in a fierce backhand, his revolver opening a gash on Thranduil’s cheekbone before the muzzle jabbed against his temple. “Do it,” he growled, and Bard did. He hurried to put his rifle down, because he knew Smaug wouldn’t think twice about killing Thranduil, and he knew he’d enjoy watching Bard fall apart afterward. 

“Kick it to me,” Smaug ordered. Bard did. 

“My, this is familiar, isn’t it?” 

Bard didn’t reply, could not bring himself to speak or move or even _think_ , not when his heart had risen up into his throat, not when Smaug gave him that awful smile. 

“Start talking, Bowman,” Smaug said. His voice was icy cold and dangerous, but at least it had wiped the grin off of his face. “I tend to start _shooting things_ when I get bored.” 

“You don’t seem surprised to see me,” Bard managed to say. His voice was weak and trembling, and it made Smaug show his teeth gleefully. 

“That’s because I’m not,” he said. “Honestly, I’m a bit disappointed with how long it took you to finally show up. I’ve been waiting here for ages.” 

“Thorin and his company have been tracking you for months. They’ve known you were here the whole time.” 

“Not _them_ , Bowman, I don’t care about them. You. I set up this little camp right under your nose and you had absolutely no idea. It was fun to watch, to toy with you for a while, to see how long it would take you, but as I’ve said, I grow bored easily.” 

Bard was speechless. He knew his shock was written plainly on his face, but he could not find the will to hide it. 

“Your children have grown up so quickly,” said Smaug. “I might not have recognised them, but they take after their mother, don’t they? How long has it been? Four years? Five? You seem to have moved on well enough,” he sneered, forcing Thranduil higher with the hand still buried in his hair. 

Bard couldn’t answer. His mind was still trying to catch up with everything that had happened in the last five minutes, still trying to make sense of what Smaug was saying. “You… you’ve been watching me,” he said finally.

“Yes, finally you understand,” Smaug said, exasperated. “I even left you a little sign on your front porch. Or didn’t you notice?” 

“That was… that was you.” Christ, Bard had assumed it had been one of Thorin’s men, that Dwalin had been the one toying with him, unscrewing the lightbulb on the porch every day. “Why?” 

“Why? Oh, don’t be dense, Bowman.” 

“I was just a soldier, I was just like the rest of them. _Why me_?”

“Why does a cat hunt a mouse?” Smaug mused. “Because I can.”

“You destroyed my family.” Bard felt weak, like his knees might give out beneath him. 

“And I’ve destroyed many more, before and since. What of it?” 

“You killed my wife. Left her for me to find like some… some toy. You traumatised my children,” Bard cried. 

“Please,” Smaug laughed, “Don’t make the mistake of assuming you’re special. You have your pet, and I have mine.” 

Bard wasn’t sure what he was going to say next, but he never got the chance. He was distracted by the sounds of a struggle to his right, followed by the sound of Alfrid screaming. By the time Bard turned to look, Tauriel had him kneeling on the ground at her feet, one arm braced on the floor in front of him while Tauriel held the other, twisted viciously behind his back and bent at an unnatural angle. “Bard, your shoulder,” she called to him. 

His shoulder, his shoulder, his— Christ, his holster! Bard had completely forgotten that he’d had his own gun on him. He grit his teeth as he pulled it from beneath his coat, flicked off the safety, took aim and squeezed the trigger, all within the span of a heartbeat. The shot echoed in the warehouse and Smaug dropped his gun. Bard’s bullet had hit its mark, embedding itself deep in the bulk of Smaug’s shoulder and leaving his arm hanging limp at his side. 

Bard advanced, stalking forward as Smaug scrambled for his gun. But Bard squeezed his trigger again, his second shot shattering Smaug’s knee and earning a curdling scream. He kicked the revolver away, eyes and pistol trained on Smaug as he writhed on the floor. 

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t just kill you now,” Bard growled. 

It would be easy. So, _so_ easy. His finger was already resting on the trigger, his hands were steady, and the barrel was aimed directly at Smaug’s head. 

He heard a commotion from outside, the sound of shouts and gunfire blasting through the doors he hadn’t bothered to close when he’d stormed in. Soon Thorin’s men were flooding into the warehouse, first Dwalin and then Bofur and Glóin and Nori, and Thorin, too. They must have all come from the cabin when Bard had run inside. 

“I should have known you wouldn’t follow orders,” Thorin grumbled. “You should have waited for backup.” 

“I wasn’t sure you’d show up at all,” Bard countered, gun still aimed at Smaug, finger still just barely resting against the trigger. 

“Stand down,” Thorin said, his voice all command, every bit the captain. But Bard wasn’t a soldier anymore, and he didn’t have anything to lose. “Bowman,” he snapped. “We want him alive. _Stand down._ ”

Bard’s vision had gone red, his eyes still locked on Smaug, watching as a smirk began to curl along his mouth. 

“Oh, you fucking—“ Bard growled and curled his fingers tighter, a heartbeat away from squeezing the trigger and ending this for good. 

But then Thranduil’s voice reached him, thin and wavering. “Bard,” he said, and finally, Bard looked away.

Thranduil was bracing himself against the wall with one hand, his head hanging low, cheek and shoulder bleeding heavily. Bard’s finger lifted off the trigger and he flicked the safety on, holstering his pistol and stepping over Smaug’s twisted legs and the growing pool of his blood. He dropped to his knees beside Thranduil, reaching for him gingerly. 

“Are you alright?” Bard asked.

Ori crouched beside them, holding a wad of gauze out for Bard to take before attacking the neck of Thranduil’s shirt with a pair of scissors, exposing his bleeding shoulder. “Put pressure on the bullet wound. Both sides,” he instructed. To Thranduil he said, “You’re lucky it went straight through; you wouldn’t want me to have to go in there after a bullet.” 

“Christ, you scared me. I was so sure I’d lost you,” Bard said, pressing the gauze to either side of Thranduil’s shoulder. 

“Better men than Smaug have tried,” Thranduil hissed through gritted teeth. “I’m still here.” 

Bard let Thranduil lean against him while Ori got to work patching him up; they all had some medical training, but Ori was the best of them, and he kept his kit on him for every mission. Bard kept Thranduil talking while his wounds were cleaned and stapled, gave him water and let him squeeze his hand when the pain was bad. 

“That’s about as much as I can do here,” Ori said. “You’ll need to see a proper doctor, but you’ll pull through.” 

Bard looked to his left, where Smaug was still on the floor. He was pale and his eyes had gone glassy, but Bard didn’t feel even an ounce of sympathy. 

“Hey,” Thranduil murmured near his ear. Bard turned back to him and immediately he could feel his expression soften, the tension in his jaw ease. “Don’t focus on him, stay with me.” 

“I’m here,” Bard soothed, taking all Thranduil’s weight as he leaned bonelessly against him. “You’re alright, I’ve got you.”

➢

A week later, Bard was back at home with his children. Smaug was in custody, awaiting a trial while Thorin’s company and MI5 sifted through a veritable mountain of evidence to make their case against him. 

Thranduil was healing well; the gash on his cheekbone was now only a thin scar, and the bullet wound in his shoulder was beginning to mend. Bard had insisted he stay in his house rather than finding another hotel room where no one would be there to help him.

Thranduil insisted he didn’t need anybody to watch over him, but he never complained when Bard helped him pull his shirts on when he got dressed, or drove him to doctors appointments. Bard was glad to have him there, grateful to have him close by on the days when he wasn’t convinced the last two weeks had been real. 

Thranduil had been sleeping in his bed and Bard had moved one of his pillows and quilts to the sofa downstairs, though he ended up sleeping beside Thranduil more nights than not. It made his blood warm, to see Thranduil in his bed, all his soft blond hair fanned our around him like some sort of angel. 

Other times the sight of him there scared Bard near to death, sent him headlong into a flashback so vivid he had to force himself to crawl into bed and wake Thranduil up, to check his pulse and make sure he was breathing. Tonight was one of those nights, and Bard was still shaking when he finally settled down beneath the covers next to Thranduil.

“Will you tell me what happened?” Thranduil whispered, and Bard knew that he would accept it if he said no, but he found himself talking about it, anyway. 

“I was in London with Thorin and the company, casing one of Smaug’s false fronts. Some barber shop or something to move his money through. Our contact said he was supposed to be there, and so we waited. We hadn’t been able to find anything concrete to nail him with, and our orders were to wait until we had a visual, to move in, and take him for questioning. But he was never there. Our contact was dirty.” 

Bard closed his eyes and pressed his head into the pillow, trying to steel himself for what came next, as though saying the words would bring him back there. 

“I got a call on my mobile. It was Gwen’s number, but when I answered, all I could hear was Tilda crying. She was only a year old, hadn’t even begun to talk yet, and she was just… _screaming_.

“I left my post. I didn’t tell any of the others, I just ran. My hands were shaking so badly I worried I’d crash the car before I could reach the house. And when I got there…” Bile burned at the back of Bard’s throat. 

“I found them all in Bain’s bedroom. He and Sigrid were on the floor in the corner, and Tilda… She wasn’t crying anymore. She’d gone back to sleep. And there Smaug was, in the centre of the room, holding my daughter in one arm and a revolver in the other. Smiling, like it was all some sick game. Like he was having _fun_ terrorising my children.” 

“That’s why everyone was so angry with you? Because you left them to save your children?” 

Bard nodded. “They walked into an ambush. We used to be a proper company, before that night. There were over a hundred of us, and they all died. Smaug’s men torched the place while they were inside, and opened fire on everyone else waiting outside. They knew exactly how many of us there were and where we would be.” 

“You can’t possibly blame yourself for what happened to them,” Thranduil said. His voice was soft and gentle, and Bard closed his eyes again, wanting to drown himself in the sound. 

“I don’t,” Bard said. “I would choose my family over them any day. Every single time.” 

“You aren’t responsible for what happened to your family, either.” 

Bard said nothing, only averted his eyes. No matter how many times he heard the words, he didn’t know if they would ever feel true. He felt the familiar guilt settle in his gut, but the panic eased in his chest the more he talked. 

“Gwen was already gone by the time I got there,” he whispered, tears soaking the pillow beneath him. “I found her, lying in bed. She looked so peaceful, she could have been asleep except for the blood.” Thranduil reached out and smoothed his thumb over Bard’s cheek, wiping at the tears there. 

“Bain didn’t say a word for months afterward, but when he finally did, he told me he’d woken up before the gunshot, that he’d gone in to see what was happening.” 

“Christ,” Thranduil muttered. Bard opened his eyes, banishing the visions of Smaug and Gwen and his terrified children and focusing on Thranduil instead. 

“All the damage had already been done by the time I got there. I couldn’t do anything to help them.” 

“No, Bard no,” Thranduil soothed. “You did everything— absolutely _everything_ you could,” he said. He sounded so sure, and Bard wanted so badly to believe him. “It is not your fault. None of this is your fault, do you hear me?”

“It feels like my fault,” Bard whispered, words too shameful to be spoken out loud. 

“You are the reason your children are alive. You are the reason _I am alive_ ,” He said, eyes wide and shining as he held Bard’s face between both his palms and stared directly into his eyes. “And God help me, Bowman, I will not hear you say a single word to the contrary.” 

Bard still didn’t quite believe him, still felt the years-old guilt churning deep inside him, but he thought he could believe Thranduil, eventually. He was willing to try, anyway, to listen until he believed him or until Thranduil got tired of trying. 

He didn’t say any of this, however, only shifted forward until he was pressed against Thranduil from forehead to toes. He kissed him, slow and soft, and fell asleep while Thranduil held him tightly to his chest.

➢

When Bard woke the next morning, Sigrid was already awake in the kitchen. She said nothing about the sheets still folded on the empty sofa, and Bard didn’t mention them either. She sat at the table with tea and toast, half the loaf of bread waiting on the counter. 

“Morning, Sig,” Bard said, pressing a kiss to her head. 

“Morning, Da.” 

Bard dropped two slices of bread into the toaster and pulled the jam from the fridge. Neither of them spoke again until the toaster had popped and Bard had sat down at the table across from her. 

“It’s still strange, seeing you without your hair,” Sigrid said, picking at the crumbs on her plate. “But I’m really glad you’re home.” 

“Me too, love.” 

“You’re home for good this time?” 

“Aye,” Bard nodded and gave her a gentle smile. “Home for good.” 

“Good.” Sigrid nodded and stood from her chair, sweeping her plate and empty mug of tea off the table and cleaning them quickly in the sink. “Thranduil is nice,” she said as she walked around the table toward him and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “He can stay too. As long as he likes.” 

Bard smiled as she walked away toward the stairs, her socks shuffling against the floorboards. And then Thranduil was there, at Bard’s side, a sleepy smile spread wide over his face. 

“Did you hear that?” Bard asked. 

“I did. She says I’m nice,” Thranduil simpered, sliding into the chair beside Bard. 

“She said you can stay,” Bard clarified. “As long as you like.” 

“Careful Bowman,” Thranduil smirked. “That may be a very long time yet.” 

“Hm,” Bard mused standing to make Thranduil some toast, but not before he crouched down to press a sideways kiss to Thranduil’s lips. “I hope so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> loved it? hated it? need to keyboard smash? leave a comment or come find me on [tumblr](http://ofplanet-earth.tumblr.com)!


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